


Beacon, Shield, Sword

by TrulyCertain



Series: Armour 'verse [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Character Study-ish, Drabbles, Dragon Age 100 Challenge, F/M, Tumblr made me do it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 30,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4116139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take an awkward, templar-phobic mage. Add a Blight and an equally awkward almost-templar. Somewhere along the way, love happens. This is how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is in the same universe as [an old fic of mine](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7222502/1/Armour), but stands on its own. Most of these were originally posted over at [my Tumblr.](http://trulycertain.tumblr.com) Feel free to come and say hello, or to tell me to stop writing such disgusting fluff before everyone's teeth fall out.

She has blood in her hair.

Alistair tries not to stare but, you know.  _Blood_. In her  _hair_. It’s not even that unusual - a fair amount of Wardens get into skirmishes and come back drenched in the stuff - but she’s also wearing Circle apprentice’s robes, and they’re  _also_  covered with blood.

He was told to expect a fully-Harrowed Circle mage. He expected someone pampered, maybe a little boring and haughty. Maybe even doughy. Instead he’s looking at a pale, tense apprentice with blood all over her, a crazy rat’s nest of hair, haunted eyes and a dagger at her belt. (He doesn’t see any scars, though, and the aura of blood magic isn’t round her. Probably not a maleficar, then; at least that’s something.)

He thought he heard her laugh when he was being a prat to the mage earlier, but he hadn’t seen her then, and now he thinks that it might just have been his imagination. She doesn’t seem the type to laugh at… well,  _anything_.

“You know,” he remarks sarcastically, after he’s somehow managed to regain his train of thought, “one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

She laughs. It’s quiet, but it’s so unexpected that he jumps a little at the sound. Her eyes are bright, and a little colour rises to her cheeks. “Just what I was thinking,” she says. 

He looks at her again, and he thinks,  _Maybe this won’t be so bad._

Of course, soon after that he lets slip that he was trained as a templar, and everything goes to the Void. But before that? He sees a woman he just might like.


	2. Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana Amell finds herself falling in love and panics.

She called it hate at first, because hate was simpler. It was better than fear.

He was a templar, and she knew templars. She knew a little of Chantry cruelty, though not as much as other mages she’d met. She knew  _enough_. She knew what he was; she wanted him nowhere near her. He would look at her or try to speak to her and her mind would rebel, screaming at her to  _get away, escape, you aren’t safe._ She pushed him away until the only times they spoke to each other would be tactics discussions or petty arguments. He provoked her and knew just how to get under her skin.

She called him  _templar,_ because that was the truth of what he was, and he shrank from her; he looked away or walked away, doing anything to  _get away_ too. She understood that better than she wanted to admit.

She clung to that. It was the only thing familiar left in her life, and it gave her strength.

Something changed.

When she wasn’t looking, some time after he’d woken her from nightmares and led her through stances, gently adjusting her grip on the sword, constructive rather than strident, he became  _the other Warden_ instead of  _the templar_.

Eventually she trusted him, even if it took too long and she sometimes hurt him during the journey.

In the days afterwards, he took watch with her night after night and saw her smile at the rain. She handed him his mother’s amulet, carefully closing his shaking fingers round it when he came close to dropping it. She watched him wipe away tears and tried stumblingly to guide him back to the surface, and he looked at her with panicked eyes. She touched him and he clung to her. She had no idea how to help him, but much to her surprise, she found that she wanted to.

He’d put his hand on her shoulder, steady and grounding, and she’d remember who she was. He’d make jokes and nudge her when melancholy threatened to creep into her heart. She’d cut him off when his humour became too sharp, too cruel. When he’d make some not-quite-offhand comment about his inadequacy, his laugh too bitter, unable to meet her eye, she’d force him to look at her and she’d tell him that he was enough. He was  _always_ enough.

Somewhere along the way, he became  _Alistair._ Her friend Alistair: kind, funny and far, far stronger than he knew.

They watched the stars together, sleeping side by side. He told her stories, making her laugh and share her own, and when the nightmare came, he woke her and told her she was safe.

While they were making their way through the Brecilian Forest, she nearly drowned; she saw his fear, watched him pull her from the water and marvelled once again at the strength of him. He begged her, his voice low, rough, desperate enough to make her stare at him, no hint of humour in his words - he said,  _Never do that to me again._

He came to mean  _safety,_  kindness, a shield and the closest thing to a home she had. He asked her what she planned to do after the Blight, and she found herself afraid at the question. She’d never really considered it. The thought of a future without him at her side seemed strange and impossible; it made her afraid. She realised that she’d come to associate her freedom and the world outside the Tower with him. He was integral to it, and part of her was afraid that it would vanish with him, becoming just another dream.

Him being her friend was enough. Itwas already too complicated, in many ways, and wholly unexpected. And then things had to change again.

She found herself watching him for too long, admiring his kind eyes, his full lips, his shoulders, his laugh. Other things, too: his competence, his wry humour and his quiet bravery.

She thrilled when he touched her, terrified that he’d see it in her eyes and understand what he did to her; the Circle had always told her about demons and warned her never to fall into their thrall, but when she looked at him, so constantly  _aware_ of him, fragile in his hands, she wondered why they’d never warned her about this - why they had never told her that a man could have such power over her.

The worst thing was, he didn’t even know. He’d do something terrible like smile at her, or offer her the last of his (usually hideous) stew, and she’d be drawn to him all over again.

On the day he came back from the river without his shirt, he was so focused on finding the garment and then something to eat that he missed the way she looked up from her book and paused, unable to help herself staring; she watched droplets of water run down his skin, shocked by the breadth and the beauty of him. Then, regaining her senses, she looked away, flushing, carefully keeping her eyes on the book until he was dressed again and ignoring Leliana’s low laughter. From anyone else, it would have been an attempt to show off, but this was Alistair; he seemed unaware of the way women looked at him, or of the way  _anyone_ looked at him.

He was so warm, so earnest. She wondered how someone could be like that in a world like this; she wondered how she had been lucky enough to find him.

This…  _thing_ in her chest was joyous and it was frightening. Sometimes she struggled to breathe with the force of it. Part of her would protest that he was a  _templar_ and this was  _wrong,_ but then she’d remember that he wasn’t; he was her friend, one of the few reliable, stable things in this new world. After a while, that part of her was silent.

She assumed that she was alone in it. She was a fool. He’d been raised in the Chantry, raised to be suspicious and afraid of mages; they’d been raised with hate too, because hate was easier. He would never look at her that way, surely. (She tried to put out of her mind the templar who  _had;_ he was an oddity, and it had turned to hatred in the end, too. Most of them didn’t even see the mages as human, never mind as something worth loving.)

She was wrong.

He handed her the rose and she  _knew_ what it meant, she’d read enough novels to know what he was telling her, offering her, and she stared at him with her heart in her throat, unable to believe it. He couldn’t possibly want her; he couldn’t possibly want to be with her, he couldn’t possibly feel the way she did. The thought that all this time, when she’d been looking at him, he’d been looking back…

She kissed him quickly, clumsily, afraid to break the spell and make him remember to reject her - but he held her arms, gathering her close to him and returning her kiss with all the inexperienced fervour she’d offered. He laughed and broke the kiss, and she blushed so hard that she thought that she must look ridiculous, but it was wonderful.

This strange, delicate thing she’d spent so long nursing and being afraid of: it was reflected. She saw it in the way he looked at her, the way he held her and the way he’d let their hands brush for just a little longer than necessary. She heard it in his tone of voice, the way he’d tease her and say her name.

She knew the word, even if she was afraid to say it out loud. She knew what this was.

He offered himself to her shyly, barely able to look at her. She wondered if there was some sort of etiquette for…  _this_ ; despite living in the Circle, she was as inexperienced as he was. Perhaps she wouldn’t be good enough for him, or she’d scare him off somehow.

She was. She didn’t. He called her  _beautiful_ again, again, pressing the word and then her name into her skin, muttering that he thought he might die if he didn’t touch all of her, laughing awkwardly at his own perceived ineptitude, and she nearly told him then. She was so close to telling him.

It wasn’t  _hate._ No, it wasn’t that at all.

The morning she woke in his arms, warm and pleasantly drowsy, they repeated the experiment of the night before, and then he said it:  _Have I mentioned I love you?_ It was quiet, said quickly and with a nervous laugh, as if he was afraid she’d realise what he’d said and push him away, storm out of the tent. His fingers were still running over her skin, but his eyes were afraid. She’d always liked them; for all the lies he attempted, his eyes always told the truth. At that moment, they were watching her carefully, waiting for her reaction and preparing for pain.

_I love you too,_ she told him, and his face lit up. Unable to resist the joy and the surprise on his face, she kissed him, saying it again:  _I love you, Alistair_. He laughed, still a little disbelieving, and she did as well, pulling him closer, kissing him again, again.

Hate is a leash. It broke without her realising it.

Ten years later, the sky broken and filled with green, another Circle mage looks at another ex-templar…

…and the leash breaks, breaks, breaks.


	3. Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU to the rest of this series; this is a "what-if", as things didn't actually happen this way. Morgana makes what she thinks is a deathbed confession.

It must be bad. Even worse than she thought, in fact. Morgana knows this because Alistair’s voice is cracking, and he looks possibly the most desperate she’s ever seen him. “Wynne!” His hand is still firm, pressed to the wound in her stomach. Strong. She wonders if he’s used to doing this for dying soldiers. He looks back to her, and he has the hollowed-out, tearful look she saw just after Ostagar. He has the eyes of a man too used to seeing death. “Can you - ?”

She shakes her head. “I’m out of mana. I’m sor - ”

Now it’s his turn to shake his head vehemently; there are tears in his eyes. That brings her a different kind of pain - she never wanted to see him hurt like this again. “No no no,” he says, “don’t be sorry. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

She realises that her hand is still clutching the hilt of her sword. It’s fallen next to her. She pretends for his sake not to taste blood as she grits her teeth and slowly lets go of it. “I’m dying.”

“No. You’re not, you’re - “

“ _Stop.”_

He shuts his mouth so hard that it clicks.

“Thank you for” - she inhales, pretending that it doesn’t hurt as if she’s being stabbed all over again - “for trying, but don’t lie to me. Please.”

He raises a hand, brushing her hair away from her eyes. His fingers are covered in blood, and he looks at them, appalled, snatching his hand back. “I’m - I’m sorry. Morgana, I’m not lying. I have to believe it, or we’re…  _I have to.”_

“Look, I know I’ll probably…” She gasps, the pain making it hard to speak. “Just… listen.”

“Listening.” He tries for a smile and falls very far short.

“I needed to tell you - I was going to, to tell you…” She feels blood on her lips, and she frowns, angry with herself. She’s wasting words, and she has too few left. “I’m sorry,” she says again.

“Stop  _apologising._ There’s nothing you can do.”

“Not for that.” Why can’t she speak? Even now, she can’t speak. Death should make one brave. She always thought so, at least. “For - I think I love you.” It’s more of a gasp and not clear enough, but she hopes he understands.

His eyes widen, and his tears are falling freely now. “Don’t. Never apologise for that.“ He laughs quietly, under his breath, and she’s seized by the fear that he’s laughing at her, just as she thought he would - until he says, “Me too.” He presses his forehead to hers, and it’s barely more than a breath when he says, “Morgana, I love you too. I was so afraid of telling you…”

She is smiling when she closes her eyes.

* * *

She becomes aware that someone is holding her hand. Shortly afterwards, she realises that she’s alive.

She opens her eyes slowly, blinking at the daylight. She looks down and realises that her armour has been taken off her and she’s in a fresh tunic. Her hand is still being held, and the someone’s thumb is rubbing circles across her knuckles. It’s repeated and soothing, almost like a ritual, as if they’re trying to reassure themselves as much as they are her.

“Wha - ?” She tries to sit up, letting out a groan at the pain.

“It’s alright.” Alistair - she now knows her companion is Alistair - lets go of her hand to ease her back down. “You’re - You know, life is a good look on you.”

She turns her head to look at him. He laughs slightly, but he still looks as if he’s about to cry. She reaches over to take his hand again. It hurts, but she doesn’t much care. “Hello,” she says quietly.

“Hello,” he replies. His voice is almost reverent, and there’s a soft spark of something in his eyes. Something… adoring.

She remembers what she said before she lost consciousness and looks away from him, feeling heat rise in her cheeks.

“Wynne did get to us, by the way. It was close, though. We honestly wondered… wondered whether you’d make it.”

“I take it I did?”

“Yes, you did.” She can hear his grin. “What, weren’t you sure?”

“I…” She trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

He clears his throat. “What you - what you said. Did you mean it, or was it just the blood loss? I mean, I’ve had injuries that made me think I was a dragon…”

He’s panicking, she can tell. But she also realises that it isn’t at what she said; it isn’t at the idea that a mage, that  _she_  has said she loves him. It’s the idea that _she didn’t mean it_. So maybe he wants…

“I meant it,” she says, too fast and awkwardly. “Alistair, I meant it.”

He inhales. It’s a small sound, but it’s sharp, loud in the silence. He blinks in surprise. “Really? Me?”

She nods, frustration beginning to get the better of her. She’s all but bared her heart, and he’s still confused? “I thought I was reasonably clear.”

That small, surprised huff of laughter again. He leans down slowly and carefully, smiling at her, and she wonders what he’s doing.

“Alis -  _mmph.”_

It’s gentle, the briefest press of lips to lips. He pulls away and drawls, “ _Reasonably.”_ His nerves seem to catch up with him, and he says, “I’m sorry, was that - was that wrong of me?”

“Oh.” It’s all she can think to say. “No. Could you, er…?”

He understands her meaning, bringing himself closer to look at her again. She touches his face, running her thumb over his cheekbone the way she has when she’s healed him, the way she’s wanted to so many times. She licks her lips nervously and sees his gaze fall to her mouth, longing in his eyes. 

That does it. She threads her fingers into his hair, pulling him down and kissing him. Again. Again, longer this time, and he’s moving closer to her, returning the kiss…

“ _Alistair!”_

They promptly break apart at the sound of Wynne’s voice, looking to the mouth of the tent.

Wynne is glaring at them, her hands on her hips. “She is still  _recovering.”_

He’s gone so pink it’s likely painful, and Morgana is aware she’s probably the same. “I,” he stammers, “I was - “

“He was checking the extent of my wound,” Morgana finishes for him, trying to say it with conviction.

Wynne raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sure he was.” She glares at Alistair. “ _Out!_ ”

He raises his palms in surrender. “Fine, fine!” He looks at Morgana helplessly, then scrambles to exit the tent.

* * *

It takes several hours for the rest of the camp to work out why, precisely, a woman whose stomach wound is still bandaged and obviously paining her spends most of the evening smiling like she’s just been blessed. Or why Alistair is just as bad.

The two Wardens look at each other, blushing, and know perfectly well.


	4. Scars

The first time Morgana sees him shirtless - truly  _looks,_ not just dimly registers it while distracted, busy with other things - Alistair’s returning from his morning meditations. She looks, and then she tries very hard not to stare.

He notices. She’s fascinated, watching the progression of his blush - the way it starts at his ears, spreads to his cheeks then down to his chest. His eyes meet hers for a moment, wide and surprised, then his shoulders hunch and he looks at the ground, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide more of himself from view, walking faster towards his tent.

Oh, she realises after a few moments too long. He thinks she’s staring at his scars.

She is, albeit not in the way he assumes. There are many of them, across his stomach and arms and chest. Some are deeper than others, and some are barely healed. There are burns, possibly from the scrape with the rage demons last month. Some are pale, others are an angry red. They look painful. She looks at knotted tissue and half-healed burns, and she thinks that they’re…

She thinks that they’re beautiful.

It doesn’t surprise her. She thinks that the rest of him is beautiful, too, although she would never dare to tell him and she doubts he would understand. But the newly-revealed scars bewitch her, and not simply due to morbid fascination. Some are old, but others she remembers - others she felt him gain while she was close behind him, behind his shield.

They suit him. They speak of a man who protects, who takes it upon himself to be a shield, who makes himself step in front of a blade first. They speak of bravery and of strength. Of kindness. To her, they are as worth admiring as the muscle from years of training, the breadth of his shoulders.

Several months later, when they’re lying in her tent, she tells him this.

He looks at her in surprise, and though he laughs, it’s nervous, his question sincere. “You weren’t just horrified?”

She shakes her head, running careful fingers over his chest. Following stories and patterns. “Sorry I couldn’t have prevented some of them. But not horrified. Far from it.” She keeps doing it, keeps tracing lines and changes in colour, and he watches her hands.

He says, “You… you really mean it, don’t you?”

She looks up to meet his eye, nods. “They’re also - they’re proof you lived. No matter what else happened, you lived.” She returns her gaze to his skin, feeling suddenly guilty. “And often you were making sure I lived, too.”

He pauses. “You know, when I think about it that way, I can almost see what you mean. And I’m - I’m glad you lived.”

She smiles at him and says quietly, “I am too.”

Sometimes she looks at her sword and wonders whether she’ll end up like him - scarred, mottled with burns. She wonders whether it’s the lot of anyone who raises a sword. 

The answer is no, not quite. Though she gains many new scars over the years, she never ends up with as many as him. She’s had fewer years in the field, spent fewer years training. However, in truth, she knows why she isn’t quite as marked: she doesn’t put herself before a blade, doesn’t plant her feet and _protect._ Doesn’t have that battlefield kindness.

She tells Alistair she loves his scars, and in time he learns to believe her.


	5. Dark

She’s afraid. She’s aware that she shouldn’t be - she’s faced worse than this; she’s walked through the destroyed remains of the Tower, stared down werewolves without flinching - but this place is different. Something about it crawls up her spine and burrows under her skin. She finds herself shivering, even though it isn’t particularly cold, and wraps her arms round herself.

She hates the bloody Deep Roads.

It isn’t the dark; she’s never been afraid of that. It’s the fact that the Taint is a constant thrum in her blood, the darkspawn so close she can nearly taste them. 

That and all the  _stone._  She’s only just becoming used to seeing the sky - the _real_ sky, not just a half-glimpsed flash of blue through a window - and breathing in the fresh air. Now she’s imprisoned by stone again, and again, she’s wishing for escape. She thought that this would never happen after she left the Circle. The stone and the dark press down on her, and suddenly she’s back in the Tower, wanting to claw her way out. 

For a moment, she blinks and sees blood on her hands, her nails, and is sure she’s been clawing at the ground. It wasn’t just her imagination, she’s trapped, she’s Blighted, the mages are  _screaming_ - 

She blinks again, and it’s gone. No blood and no mages. She’s here, with Alistair and Leliana and the dwarf who wants to find his wife. Their steps echo on the stone, in the silence.

Alistair keeps darting glances at her, his eyes worried. She’s caught between fighting irritation, wondering if he really thinks she’s so delicate, and wanting to cling to him. He’s freedom and the things she knows. Down here, she needs all that more than ever.

“Morgana?” He touches her shoulder, and even though it’s gentle, she jumps. Leliana is looking on in concern.

“I… I’m fine,” she says, too quickly.

“Gets to you, doesn’t it?” His voice is hushed. “It’ll be worse for you. You’re new, and you Joined during a Blight. But it makes you… volatile. Jumpy. The older Wardens would talk about it, sometimes.”

She can’t help being relieved at the thought that she isn’t going mad.”You feel it too?”

He nods, then shudders dramatically. “Fun, isn’t it? I keep wanting to scratch all the skin I can reach.”

“Mmm.” She keeps her eyes ahead, lying to herself:  _Not much further now, not much further now…_ Then she lets herself look at him. “Thank you.”

He smiles at her; it’s tender, the only bright thing down here. “Anything for you.” 

He says it lightly, but she knows the truth of it. This thing between them is so new, and she’s half-frightened that it will be snatched away from her - but when he looks at her that way, she can almost forget her fears. She lets her hand brush his briefly, then she rolls her shoulders, straightens her spine and keeps walking.

They make camp soon afterwards.

She tosses and turns in her bedroll, unable to sleep, and eventually begins reading to distract herself. It’s the only way she can keep herself sane.

She burns through her first candle far too soon. They can’t spare many more; they may need the light later, and if her magic fails her…

She sighs, summoning a wisp, but an hour or two later - she loses track of time here - she’s running low on mana. It’s not worth wasting a lyrium potion for her own foolish fears, and she won’t light another candle for the same reason. She’ll have to face the darkness and the stone, and the thought sends a shiver of fear up her spine. She curses quietly.

It isn’t as quiet as she’d hoped. She looks up from her book as she hears Alistair clear his throat outside her tent. “Can I - ?”

“Come in,” she says.

He does, sitting opposite her. “Can’t sleep?”

“No.” With anyone else, she might try and brush it off, but this is him. “It’s… the dark down here. The dark and the… the stone. I don’t want to be - There aren’t many candles, and I don’t have enough mana to…“ She trails off then, unable to continue, not wanting to consider it.

“I thought it might be something like that. I can certainly spare these.” He offers her three candles.

Recognising it for the gesture it is, she gives him a small smile and takes them. “Thank you.” With the smallest push of her mana, she lights them and walks to place them safely on candlesticks a few feet away. Then she returns to her bedroll.

She expects him to leave, but instead he stretches out beside her, his arms under his head, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling of the tent. She’s surprised - they’ve slept side-by-side many times, but never like this; it’s always been too close to a line they’re both slightly afraid to cross. She’s glad of the company, however. She wonders if he’s doing this for himself, too; perhaps he’s just as on edge as she is.

“Give me a moment…” He holds up a finger, then carefully ducks out of the tent, returning a few moments later with a book tucked under his arm. He lies back down, opening  _Chronicles of the Spellbinder_ \- she’s pleased by his choice - about halfway through.

She pretends to return to her book. In actuality, she watches him. He’s a fidgety, edge-of the-seat reader: he frowns at the book as if caught up in it, and occasionally he’ll sit up, resting it on his lap and pursing his lips, intent.

It should probably bother her. Instead, it makes her smile, and she finds herself wanting to kiss those lips, to move close and read over his shoulder.

She doesn’t, of course. She doesn’t want to bother him.

It takes her a few more minutes to realise that he’s been doing the same. She looks up from  _Arcane Masterie of Fyre_ to see him sitting, leaning his head on his hand and looking at her. His eyes are soft, and he appears as if he’s fighting not to smile. He offers her a caught-out half-grin, utterly shameless.

“Something interesting?” she asks dryly.

“Oh yes. Very, actually.”

She reaches up, running a hand down his cheek, trying to convey what she isn’t saying. Then she returns to her reading, making the most of her remaining light.

It can only be an hour at most before the candles flicker, sputter and die. She puts her book aside, lying back down. She supposes she’ll have to try and sleep now, no matter how unpleasant the attempt might be. 

She hears Alistair doing something similar, and then he sighs. “You know, I don’t like it down here either.”

“There’s very little to like,” she mutters.

With a low laugh, he replies, “True.”

She feels him take her hand, and then he presses a quick kiss to her knuckles, putting their joined hands on the bedroll between them.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she admits, after a few minutes. She feels like she’s saying too much, confessing something important. 

She can tell he isn’t asleep either; his breathing’s different when he is.

“Really?” Again, that hint of a laugh. “Nice to know I’m appreciated.”

“You are.” She lasts another half-minute before she unlaces their hands and shifts towards him, curling around him.

“Oh, hello.” He sounds quite genuinely surprised, though certainly not displeased. He slips an arm around her, holding her closer.

Her head on his chest, she says quietly, “Keep talking. Please. Just for a while.  I just need… Please.” She can hear his heartbeat; it’s oddly reassuring.

She feels him look at her in surprise, can positively  _hear_ the raising of his eyebrows - but then, in the darkness, softly, he does.


	6. Superstition

Leliana says that you can tell a lot about a person from how they sleep.

Morgana doesn’t want to think too much about how she knows that; it’s probably from breaking into nobles’ estates in the dead of night, dagger in hand. Also, it seems a bit superstitious, reading so much into small things - like reading tea leaves and thinking they’ll tell you the future.

Leliana would smile at that and try not to laugh, for Morgana and Alistair confirm her theory completely, and yet neither of them is aware of it.

Morgana spent the first few months of the Blight reluctant to fall asleep around others. Leliana at first assumed it was due to her nightmares, and then she realised that it was something more: the mage equated it to vulnerability. It was a long time before she felt comfortable enough to fall asleep around the fire. She would sleep curled tightly around herself, as if shielding herself from blows. She also snored slightly, the sound graceless and thoroughly unladylike. It brought a smile to Leliana’s face.

Alistair was less shy about sleeping. Perhaps it was the adrenaline of battles wearing off that meant he would suddenly slump, exhaustion catching up with him. Perhaps he had simply learned not to be self-conscious in general, though with his awkward jokes and his usually well-hidden shyness, that seemed unlikely. The way he slept, too, said that this was unlikely. Like Morgana, he curled tight, vulnerability in the curve of his spine. Morgana seemed not to know of this similarity, but Leliana did, and she wondered whether it was the result of years spent in Chantry dormitories. When he didn’t curl, he would stretch out instead, as if reaching for someone. To Leliana, it spoke of loneliness.

Morgana would only sleep around Leliana, and later Alistair. Morgana and Alistair would stay awake, talking quietly late into the night, in order to stave off the nightmares they both appeared to suffer from. 

Once, Leliana emerged from her tent in the early hours of the morning to find them asleep next to each other, facing each other. Unusual for Morgana to show such trust, but then, Alistair was her friend. Zevran, on watch with Morgana’s mabari, simply grinned at Leliana and placed a finger to his lips. Afterwards, finding them asleep close to each other became a frequent occurrence.

Leliana politely pretends not to know that they began sharing a tent long before they ever did so in the euphemistic sense. Now that they have been together for quite a while, the ways that they sleep together tell stories just as detailed as the ways in which they slept separately.

Leliana is often the one to wake them. Some of the time, she will find Morgana wrapped in Alistair’s arms, his face in her hair. On other occasions, Morgana will be all but sleeping on him, her head on his chest, her arms and legs across him as if she has somehow fallen asleep attempting to climb him. Then there are days where Leliana will find him curled around Morgana, his head on her shoulder, the mage’s arms wrapped tightly around him as if she is trying to hold him together. Other mornings they will be sleeping with space between them but their legs tangled together.

Leliana knows from travelling with him that Alistair is an early riser - it’s a habit the Chantry trains into all its templars, and a difficult one to shake - but he will quite often stay with Morgana, partly for the indulgence of it and partly, he has admitted, to keep her company. Leliana has more than once ducked into the tent to find him awake and reading, Morgana’s head on his shoulder . He’s simply grinned and said that he’ll nudge Morgana. 

He often appears to mean that quite literally - Leliana has seen him very gently elbow her, Morgana simply grunting and settling closer to him, at which point he has had to shrug in apology and begin efforts to wake her up in earnest.

Most of the time they are quiet, shy, thinking they are subtle in the way that they express their affection, but when they sleep, the truth is revealed. However Leliana finds them, they are always touching, always holding each other - as if they have grown used to finding each other. As if they are determined to protect each other even in sleep.

Morgana thinks Leliana superstitious. Leliana thinks Morgana is in love.


	7. Fluffy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More sleeping Wardens. Written for the prompt:
> 
> "Imagine: Alistair and the Warden, first time sleeping on a large, fluffy bed in the castle in Denerim, after everything. Neither can fall asleep, and move the bedding to the floor. A servant coming in the morning to wake them up for their duties, only to find them on the floor and, concerned, goes to wake 'em up. The first thing the Warden does is put her knife up against her throat, almost automatic. Alistair having to charm the servant into being quiet. I mean, it must be tough to adjust now."

There are very few things Alistair regrets teaching his fellow Warden. Even those few things are usually a blessing. Vigilance, for instance - being aware of your surroundings, sleeping lightly and being ready to get on your feet. The Blight started that lesson, and he’s tried his best to carry it on. Well, most of the time.

Behind him she lets out a very unladylike grunt, rolling over so fast and so vehemently that the mattress tips and he actually  _bounces,_ nearly falling out of bed. “Morgana!” He turns to glare at her (only half-seriously, but it’ll still bring him some measure of satisfaction).

She looks guilty, somehow managing to avoid meeting his eye even as they lie facing each other. “Oh. Sorry. I was just… trying to get comfortable.”

“We should really be getting some sleep. Anora will never forgive us if we drop off in the middle of the ceremony.”

Morgana looks wounded. ”I  _can’t.”_

It doesn’t make sense. The Archdemon is freshly defeated after what feels like one of the longest battles of his life, they’ve had a very thorough “thank the Maker you’re alive and I’m alive” er, private celebration, and everything aches with how tired he is. She seems the same. This should be easy, shouldn’t it? And yet neither of them can quite sleep. He reckons it’s this bloody bed.

He sighs, and then eventually admits, “Me neither. I just… I feel like I’m _sinking_.”

She nods vigorously, her eyes wide, and he can’t help but laugh at the desperation in her expression.

“I think it’s all those nights on the ground.” He presses a hand to the mattress. “This is just so…”

“… _soft_.” Morgana’s voice is quiet and pained. Another second goes by and then she admits, “I can’t get my back straight.”

He looks at her in concern, trying to think of a suggestion. He remembers nights spent curled together in bedrolls, trying to put some material between them and the stones that threatened to stick into unfortunate places. Back then, they’d probably have begged for a bed like this.

…And then those memories give him an idea.

He all but hops out of bed, gesturing to her. “Up you get.”

She frowns at him but climbs out, waiting.

He grabs pillows and a couple of blankets, pulling them onto the floor. He wants to apologise to the servants who probably had to spend far too long making this bed, but he’ll do that in the morning. He spreads them out, shrugging and thinking that that’s probably good enough to sleep on.

When he looks up, she’s watching him with more than a little amusement, obviously having figured out what he’s doing. She approaches him and the odd little nest cautiously, waiting for his next move.

He gestures to it with an exaggerated bow. “My lady, your  _boudoir_ awaits.”

“I’m sure that isn’t what  _boudoir_ means,” she mutters, but she’s smiling, stepping closer.

“Leliana can glare at me later.” He puts his hands on her waist, making it clear what he’s about to do, and when she doesn’t protest, he hoists her into his arms. It’s an awful lot easier without all her usual splintmail, and she’s warm, the curves of her soft against him.

She nuzzles into his shoulder - Andraste’s sword her nose is cold, how can any part of her be  _cold_ in a room this warm? - and he feels her smile. She mumbles something, and it takes him a moment to work out what it is. “You’re very strong.”

He remembers her saying the same after she nearly drowned, after he pulled her out of a river in the Brecilian Forest - but he does his best to suppress that memory, and is suddenly distracted.

Something in her tone, in the smile he can feel, gives her away. He grins wickedly, even though she can’t see it. “ _Oh_. You like that, do you?”

He can feel her cheeks heat, and then she lets out the tiniest, most ashamed, “Yes.”

He laughs - he can’t help it - then lays her down as gently as he can, lowering himself to lie next to her. He leans on an elbow, making sure she’s happy with this arrangement.

She looks at him, her hair fanned out against the sheets, that soft, secret smile she only seems to give him still on her lips. There’s a little pink in her cheeks even now, and her eyes are so tender he thinks he could drown in them. Maker, he’s had dreams like this. Suddenly sleeping seems like it isn’t such a great idea after all.

She leans across, her fingers under his chin, and then kisses him, long and slow and deep. (He’s never understood this: how the woman who’s shy sometimes to the point of standoffishness, who blushes if you so much as give her a hug, can suddenly decide to kiss him like a desire demon.) “Thank you.” It’s simple, said quickly but so painfully earnest. She has a way of doing that - saying little things like they mean the world to her, because they probably do. She doesn’t tend to waste words.

He stares at her, opening his mouth to reply and then snapping it shut, trying to get his breath back and his mind working again.

She looks like she’s trying very hard not to laugh. She  _enjoys_ doing this to him. No-one ever said the heroic Grey Warden was so sneaky.

He tries to think of something witty to say, but the truth falls out of his mouth instead. “Anything for you,” he says softly. He tries to play it off as a joke, but it sounds too real in the quiet of their room.

She just keeps her smile and says, “I love you.” She likes to mean things she says, and she’s made a habit of saying it since that first time. Like she wants to make sure he knows.

It still makes him feel like his heart’s about to burst in his chest. He never thought anyone would look at him like this, talk to him like this. He never thought he’d be wanted, let alone loved.

He grins at her rather than letting the moment get too heavy. “And I love you.” He cocks his head, pretending to think it over. “Well, last time I checked.”

She mock-glares at him, but her lips are twitching. It sort of ruins the effect.

They end up with her on her back, watching firelight throw flickering shadows onto the ceiling, and him lying with his head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat. It’s a reminder. A reward.

“I really thought I was going to lose you.” It’s murmured, barely there, and he only realises he’s said it after the words have already escaped from his lips.

She runs a hand through his hair, her hands as gentle as they are when she heals him. “I know. I thought the same about you.” She inhales sharply, the sound loud in the near-silence. “But you appear to be alive. How odd.”

“Terrible, isn’t it? I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“Mm. Terrible.” He can hear her smile. He resists the urge to slide up and taste it.

Sometime in the next few minutes, her fingers carefully combing through his hair and her heart steady under his ear, he falls asleep. It feels earned. It feels right.

* * *

So: vigilance.

Vigilance becomes a problem when his contented slumber is disturbed by Morgana swiftly moving from under him. The sound of steel, a sharp cry.

His eyes snap open. “Wha - ?”

Some poor servant is against the wall, a dagger to her throat. (He has no idea where Morgana even grabbed it from. She’s made a point of always having a weapon to hand since they started training. It’s odd, really, that she doesn’t instinctively go for her magic rather than steel.) The servant is shaking, wide-eyed.

Morgana’s eyes widen too, as she seems to realise what she’s doing, and Alistair clears his throat pointedly. She looks at the servant, then down at herself, appearing to realise she’s only in her underwear. She looks up again, and he can just see her assessing the situation: innocent against the wall with a dagger at her throat, underwear,  _innocent against the wall with a dagger at her throat._

Morgana lets the servant go, her face horrified, her palms up in surrender. (But then, that tends to mean less when you’re a mage. You can’t really show your lack of weapons if your hands  _are_ your weapons.)“I am so… so sorry.”

Alistair has been approaching her hesitantly, and he taps her on the shoulder. She looks at him, and then passes him the dagger with careful hands.

“It’s fine, your - Warden,” the servant manages, though her eyes are still wide and her shoulders are still tense. Her hands are still shaking, too. Oh dear.

Morgana says quietly, “No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have - “

Alistair tries his best attempt at a reassuring smile. “She’s not usually so dagger-happy, but you know how it is. It’s been a long year, and we’ve had more than one assassination attempt. It’s made us both a little jumpy. Is there a reason you were sent here?”

The poor woman obviously  _doesn’t_ “know how it is” - after all, few would. If he heard about this year, he wouldn’t believe it himself _._ “Er…” she starts, still seeming uncertain. She stares at him, and he’s suddenly immensely glad he decided to wear trousers last night, or this could’ve been even more awkward. “There was - Her Majesty told me to rouse you to prepare for the celebrations.”

She ducks her head, and he suddenly feels even sorrier for her than he did before. He remembers a hundred occasions where he had to grovel for Isolde, the terror of it, and feels unsettled by the way she’s addressing him - or rather,  _not_ addressing him. “Oh, right,” he says. “What’s your name?”

She looks surprised. What, doesn’t she get asked? Doesn’t anyone care? She licks her lips nervously, still not quite looking at him, and then says, “Irma, ser.”

“Irma. Well, I’m Alistair, and" - he gestures to Morgana - “this is Morgana.”

Morgana offers Irma her hand, the movement tentative, her eyes just as afraid as the servant’s. Irma looks at it in surprise and then takes it, shaking it slowly. “I really am sorry,” Morgana says.

Irma nods. “I was just - I was concerned. By the…” She makes a vague gesture to where they’ve been sleeping. “I wondered if your injuries were - or if the accommodations weren’t satisfactory…”

“Oh, no!” he insists, waving his hands about embarrassingly.

Morgana rescues him. “The accommodations were wonderful, thank you. We’ve simply grown too used to sleeping on the ground.” She tries to smile.

Oh no. Politeness. Careful politeness and formality mean she’s panicking.

Irma nods again. “I… good. Will that be all?”

“You’ve done more than enough,” he says.

She looks at them both, still seeming a little dazed, and then bows, heading out of the door.

The minute she’s gone, Morgana scrapes a hand through her hair, her breathing harsh.

He tries to calm her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. Hey, it’s alright.”

She looks up. Her eyes are wide, and they look bluer than ever. “I - I could have - “

“No.” He shakes his head, knowing the truth of it as he says it. “No you couldn’t have. And we’ve had Crows sent after us before - it pays to be cautious.”

Morgana’s still tugging at her hair. “She was only trying to…”

“You apologised. Both of us did. And you’ve barely slept for the past few days - these things happen. Back when I was first conscripted, there was a day where Grigor nearly had his axe to an innkeeper’s head. But we remember, and we’re better than that. You’re better than that.”

She nods faintly, still looking unconvinced.

“Besides: you, me, alive. The others, alive. Anora having to give us some sort of ostentatious, shiny medal and admit we aren’t so bad after all. Imagine her  _face.”_

That seems to wake Morgana from her trance, and she smiles - small, slow, but there. It’s a little victory, at least.

“There we go. It’s a good day. We’ve won a good day.”

Her smile is like the sun rising, warm and brilliant and reassuring - and he suddenly knows that he can face some long, boring ceremony, Maker, he can face the entire bloody Fereldan  _court,_ as long as she’s by his side.


	8. Shades of Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for #sexlaughterhonesty week on Tumblr. Safe for work, albeit with implied, er, private mishaps.

Leliana was staring into the campfire, nearly asleep and attempting not to think of the immensity of their quest, when her reverie was broken by the sound of laughter from the woods around the camp: high, surprised, but certainly male. 

She recognised it as Alistair’s. Looking around their camp, she couldn’t help but notice that Morgana was also conspicuously absent.

Ah.

She heard a very small, “That worked in  _The Rose of Orlais_ ,” and then, “I, er, excuse me,” from the trees. 

“Morgana, wait!” Alistair called. When she evidently did not, he sighed.

Twigs snapped, and then Morgana emerged from the woods, hastily adjusting the laces on her shirt. She stopped when she noticed Leliana. Her cheeks had already been pink, but now they became a frankly startling shade of red. “Sorry.” She looked back at the woods. “I, er, thought everyone was asleep.”

Leliana smiled at her. “A midnight stroll, perhaps? I suppose Alistair was in need of exercise too.”

Morgana’s face became a different, altogether more fascinating shade of red. “You could, er. You could say that.” She looked over her shoulder once more.

As if summoned by a thought, Alistair all but crashed through foliage, emerging at her side embarrassed but luckily dressed. “Morgana…” He, too, realised that Leliana was sitting by the fire. “Oh.”

Rather than stay and watch the painful awkwardness that would surely follow, Leliana simply stood, appearing to stifle a yawn. “It’s getting dreadfully late, isn’t it? Good night.”

Alistair nodded, opening and then closing his mouth, seemingly still trying to find words, and Morgana let out a hasty, “Night.”

Leliana looked over her shoulder as she prepared to climb into her tent. 

Morgana’s head was low, her cheeks still pink, and Alistair was holding her by the arms, his voice as gentle as his grip. Leliana heard him say, "I think I know what you were trying to do. Come on, we can…“

“Are you certain?” Morgana muttered.

Alistair gave her an impish grin. “I, for one, would very much like to try that again.” His face settled into seriousness. “If you want to, that is.”

She took his hand, finally looking at him. “I… I see. And I want to.”

“Right then. That’s that settled.”

He began to lead Morgana back into the forest, and Leliana entered her tent, having heard more than enough.


	9. First Edition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://kenaiskoda.tumblr.com/post/119898437912/established-relationship-aus) on Tumblr. For "What do you mean you dropped my signed copy of Harry Potter in the bathtub AU".

Morgana’s eyes are wide and blue, and in a moment her face will settle into that look she gets before she tears you a new orifice. Alistair waits for her to say something, but she doesn’t, and that’s when he begins quietly backing away. Silent Morgana is murderous Morgana. 

He puts his hands up. “I… I moved half an inch, and it was just  _there,_ and I…”

“I see,” she says, her reply so quiet he almost misses it. Then her eyes return to where they were, and she stares at her copy of  _The Young Sorcerer’s Folly_. 

It was given to her by its author, Ser Jenna Roland, and it is currently near the bottom of the bath, hopelessly wrinkled and possibly beyond repair. She came in here to heat the bathwater, and has currently been greeted by… this.

The smallest exhale. She walks forwards to the bath, then gently removes the book from the water with both hands, putting it onto a nearby table. Instead of anger, he sees something much, much worse dawn on her face: a sort of quiet, resigned sadness, one that rests in her eyes and the downturned curve of her mouth. That makes him move.

“Oh no,” he finds himself saying. “Oh no no. Not that face. It’ll be… I promise I’ll find you another copy. Even if I have to slay a wyvern to do it, I’ll… I’ll do something. Honestly.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t… I’ll try and dry it at some point.” She lowers her hand into the water, and with a quick spell she’s warming it. With a cock of her head, she gestures to the bath. “Go on.”

She’s still too quiet. He asks dryly, but with far too much genuine concern,.“You aren’t going to drown me, are you?”

With a soft, gentle kiss to his forehead that leaves him feeling even guiltier, she replies, “Not today. The book is replaceable. You aren’t.” She sighs. “I may have to go and set something on fire. Enjoy the bath.”

She leaves, and he stares after her. His gaze shifts, and he makes a decision. There’s time to visit Roland. He’ll say something about “the cause of true love”. Maybe he’ll offer some dragon teeth. The eternal favour of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens?

He’s still thinking when he hears the sound of the small hedge outside being frozen, then shattered.


	10. Fresh Meat

[A hastily-scrawled note found in the Vigil’s Keep dining hall.]

_GROUND RULES_

_Welcome to the Legion of the Damned. (Wait, can we have that one? Legion of the Dead and all.)_

_We’re all aware that Amell and Alistair are an item. At least pretend not to be, for politeness’ sake. Or don’t mention it until they do. One of them’ll slip up, and then they’ll be too busy going pink and mumbling to do anything about discipline. Tease all you want._

_Don’t fuck with Amell’s books. She’ll happily lend you a few, but ruin any or nick any and you’ll be on latrine duty for a month. That’s if she doesn’t set you on fire._

_If the two of them need to “discuss command strategies” in Amell’s room in the middle of the night and the door’s locked, don’t interrupt them. Unless there’s actually a darkspawn stampede, someone’s grievously injured or the keep is on fire, it can wait. Trust us, it can wait._

_Don’t insult one of them in the other’s presence. Or at least, not too much, and don’t get too personal. Slag off Alistair in front of him and he’ll just laugh it off - he does it enough himself anyway - but do it in front of Amell and you’ll end up mysteriously cleaning the bogs before you can blink. Vice versa: start on Amell round Alistair, and you’ll have two minutes before you’ll get roped into a “friendly sparring session”. You’ll end up on your arse with the whole keep laughing at you, and he’ll be far too nice about it._

_Don’t drink Oghren’s ale. Or eat Oghren’s stew. You know what, just don’t go near Oghren at all._

_Life is short. Really short. Enjoy your time here._


	11. Down

The first time she falls, his heart stops.

He knew mages were fragile (it was one of the first things he was taught - mages aren’t built to be close-range fighters, and a templar can exploit that), but somehow, she’d convinced him otherwise. Maybe it was the armour. Maybe it was the dagger. Maybe it was her persistence, her patience, her sometimes frightening silence. Whatever it was, it must have made him complacent.

They’re in Redcliffe Castle, and between the dead villagers trying to gut them and the unpleasant memories this place stirs up, he’s been a little distracted. He doesn’t see what gets past her guard, though he sees Leliana take down a corpse with just a little too much relish afterwards. He just sees his fellow Warden fall.

He wants to make sure she’s alright. Even with the awkwardness between them, the way she barely seems to talk to him, he worries. Instead he focuses on (re?)killing the corpse in front of him.

It’s the last of them, and then he sheathes his sword and runs.

He sees the wound on her head. Looks like a pommel caught her. He kneels next to her, crouching too uncomfortable in armour, and checks her over. Nothing too deep, thank the Maker.

He shakes his head in frustration. Of course it’s their only healer who needs checking over.

She stirs with a groan, frowning. For a half-second she almost seems to nuzzle into his hand, then her eyes are snapping open and she’s wrenching herself away. That makes more sense. She’s been a little more open since Lothering, since he started teaching her swordwork, but she still seems unsure how to approach him, and she rarely starts a conversation.

She stares up at him, still dazed. “I… Alistair?”

It’s still reassuring to hear. Not  _templar:_ Alistair _._ Still a novelty, really. She almost treats him like he’s human these days.

He tries on a grin. He doubts it’s convincing. “Rise and shine.”

That confused frown again. “You look… you look worried.”

“Well, yes.” Does she think he doesn’t care? The only other Warden in Ferelden just fell in a fight. “That wasn’t fun to watch.”

“I…oh.”

He offers her a hand up. She looks at it, still with that understated surprise, and then takes it, pulling herself to her feet. “Thank you.” It’s so quiet he almost misses it.

He nods. “Not a problem.”

He acts like the moment’s forgotten while they dust themselves off, keep going, but he keeps a careful eye on her afterwards. This is probably his fault. If something got past her… He needs to teach her better. He  _needs_  to. Next time, he might not…

No. He really doesn’t want to think of next time.


	12. Crossroads

She finds her phylactery in Denerim, long after the Circle at Kinloch Hold has been dissolved. She lifts it with shaking hands. The glass is frosted and cold, an unnatural steam rising from it, and suddenly she’s nineteen again, standing in the phylactery chamber and waiting for Jowan to destroy the small, fragile vial. She inhales, the sound harsh and shaking in the silence. She only allows herself a moment; she shuts her eyes and then opens them again, needing to be fully aware for this.

“Morgana?”

Alistair’s voice rouses her from her odd trance, and she looks at him. He takes a hesitant step forwards. His brow is furrowed, his face worried, and she can’t blame him; she must look strange. Her chest aches, heavy with a feeling she can’t quite name. She hears him take another step, and then she’s certain.

He reaches for her, hesitant, but instead she presses the phylactery into his hands. 

To his credit, he doesn’t let it fall; his fingers close around it, and he stares at it. It glows very slightly as it warms to his touch. She wonders if it’s his templar abilities, or… No. It would be superstitious to think it might be the connection between them. He keeps it at arm’s length and looks to her, asking, “What are you - ?”

She raises her hand, grasps his, and then very gently pushes until the phylactery is pressed against his chest. “If something happens, or if you need to find me… I always want you to be able to find me.”

He just looks rather rather than replying, wide-eyed. He seems to take a while to find his voice. When he does, he manages, “Are you sure? I know how you feel about this. I thought we were coming here to destroy it, or….”

If anything, his uncertainty reassures her. He knows what this means to her. He knows what her voluntarily giving up a freedom means.

“I’m sure,” she says. “I trust you. I want you to always have a reminder, to have…. me.” 

With a smallest half-smile, he replies, “I have to say, this is the oddest marriage proposal I’ve ever heard.”

It’s her turn to stare as she realises how her words sounded, what she offered him. Her voice is quiet and rough as she asks him, “Is that what this is?”

He carefully pockets the phylactery, and then takes her hand. His voice is careful, too. “I don’t know. Do you want it to be?”

Before she can help herself she’s closing the small distance between them, pressing her nose into his neck. She feels him lift his arms and rest a hand gently against her back. She remarks, “I’ve heard rings are far less macabre.”

He laughs, and she feels it as much as hears it. “More decorative, too. But we met because you were going to drink  _darkspawn blood._ I don’t think macabre’s really a worry anymore.”

“I thought mages and Wardens couldn’t get married.”

“Yes, well. Supposedly you can’t kill an Archdemon and live, either.”

She says, at last, “Do you want it to be a proposal?”

He feels his shoulders tense. He’s always been one for avoiding the real question as long as possible. “I…” He inhales sharply. “Yes. Maybe?”

She can’t help it. She mutters disgustedly, “Would we have to go to the Chantry?”

She feels his soft laughter again, and then he says, “You have a point. I doubt they’d be pleased. I don’t know. Maybe it’s not the rings, then, or the parchment. Maybe it’s the intention.”

She rests her head against his shoulder. “Stay with me?”

He wraps his arms round her properly, holding her closer. “Always,” he replies, and does.


	13. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. A happy ending for the wandering drunkard outcome, written for Alistair Week on Tumblr. Oh, and there's a Varric cameo.

The tavern is a dive. Out of some odd kind of respect, Morgana wipes the mud off her boots before she enters it. She’s not sure why; she doubts it would make much difference.

She draws a few stares when she walks in. For a moment she tenses, uncertain whether she’ll have a fight on her hands or congratulations - either prospect fills her with dread. Then she remembers that she isn’t wearing Warden mail and her sword isn’t on her back. It’s probably just that she’s a new customer.

She looks around slowly, taking in every patron she can see. Not one of them is the man she’s looking for _._

She swallows, her heart sinking. Maybe this was a useless endeavour after all.

She can’t give up yet. She’s taken two ships to get here, and she’s tired. Her feet ache. She feels naked without her sword easily accessible; the dagger in her boot and her magic aren’t nearly enough. She’s braved enough discomfort already; she can deal with a little more.

She orders a tankard of Kirkwall ale. The barman winks at her, and she tries not to go pink. When it arrives, it’s faintly murky and distinctly unpromising, but Wardens are immune to most major diseases, so she takes a swig and has one last look around.

It’s a small thing, and it catches her eye by chance. A man sitting half in the shadows, on a corner table so he can see who comes and goes - a soldier’s instinct. The shine of candlelight on mid-blond hair. It makes her look properly, and within a second, two, she knows. Maybe it’s those broad shoulders, slumped as they are, or maybe it’s simply his resigned posture. She remembers travelling after Ostagar with a man who’d lost everything, and knew it - tonight she sees that man again.

Some misplaced instinct, some faith that he might just listen to her, makes her take a seat opposite him. The chair creaks as she sits, too loud in the quiet of the pub.

He looks up and her heart stops. He’s haggard, sallow and too thin, his hair long and tangled, but his eyes and the strength of his jaw are the same. The way her chest aches to look at him is the same. She looks at him and sees the man she fell in love with.

And she knows she still loves him. She’s spent a long time trying to deny it, but she knows.

“What - ?” Recognition settles on his face, and she’s gratified to see that he knows her face well enough to realise who she is within a second. That’s something. “ _You.”_

The rage in his eyes frightens her. Not because she thinks he’ll hurt her - even in this state, even after so long, she trusts him not to do it - but because of what it means. She’s seen him angry, even if it was rare between the jokes and the sadness and the gentle admonishment, but not like this. This kind of fury, this almost-hatred, has never been directed at her.

“You,” she returns quietly. She takes a sip of her tankard. “It’s been…”

“ _Two years_.” He glares at her. “You left me to rot for  _two years,_ and you’ve never even tried to….” He’s slurring, and she hopes that the alcohol isn’t making him truthful, rather than irrational.

“I was a little preoccupied.” She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t want to shout at him, and neither does she want to draw attention to their situation.

He laughs harshly, bitterly, with no humour in it. “Preoccupied. You said you loved me, but that was only when it was  _convenient.”_

 _“_ I…“  _Still love you._ She can’t say that. “Anora was intent on sending me to Amaranthine. I wanted to find you, but there was an emergency.”

“ _Anora.”_ With a curl of his lip, he continues, “Yes, because you do everything she says.”

Now she’s angry, and she can’t help it. “Don’t you  _dare - “_  She’s gritting her teeth so hard that they hurt. “If you’re going to suggest I’m some sort of  _attack dog_ for her… I put her on the throne because I love you, and you  _left me.”_  She can barely get the words out; they’re like swallowing sandpaper. “I trusted you and I needed you, and you  _left me.”_

He’s staring at her, his eyes wide with shock and something like wonder, and it sends a prickle up her spine.

After a moment that’s far too long, he breathes, “You love me.” When she’s silent, he says, “You didn’t use the past tense. You love me?”

Bugger. “I… I need to go.” She stands, the abrupt scrape of her chair making her wince, and makes her way to the door as fast as she can without actually running.

“Morgana…”

She has to close her eyes and take a moment to breathe. She’s missed the sound of her name on his lips so badly. She never thought she’d hear it again, but she hoped…

She finds the nearest crowd she can. Between them, the darkness and the rain, she’s soon lost amongst the people of Kirkwall, just another face on the streets.

* * *

She’ll need to go back to the Hanged Man, she knows that. Yet the thought of seeing him again and watching him spit venom while knowing that she loves him… It’s too much. She’s shown weakness, and if he exploits it, he won’t be the man she loves. Maybe she doesn’t know him at all anymore.

She rests her head against the wall of her rented room, sighing. She listens to the sound of the rain on the roof, letting it remind her where she is,  _who_ she is. This is foolish. She’s twenty two years old, not some frightened teenager. She’s faced a Blight; she should certainly be able to face Alistair.

A knock on the door rouses her from her unpleasant reverie.

Tense, a hand on the dagger that’s now at her hip, she opens it.

A dwarf stands in the corridor, his arms crossed and a grin on his face. “Has anyone ever told you you look an awful lot like the Hero of Ferelden?” She makes to close the door, but he shows his palms. His eyes are honest, if amused, and it makes her pause. “Hey, I’m not about to spread that around. It’s not really why I’m here, anyway.” He makes a show of checking his fingernails, too casual. “One of my, uh,  _regulars_ at the Hanged Manis looking for you. He says there’s some unfinished business. From what I saw last night, you’ve been looking for him too.”

She asks the first and most important thing that comes to mind. “How did you find me?”

“I know a lot of people in Kirkwall. I asked around about a woman of your description. Figured someone would’ve noticed you. You know, you’re really not as subtle as you think you are.”

“Thank you,” she says dryly.

With a nod, he says, “Don’t mention it.” His bravado drops, and he’s quieter when he says, “So… do you want me to give him an honest answer, or just an answer?”

She stares at him. It’s a surprisingly generous offer, and the phrasing of it amuses her. She can’t help but smile slightly. “I….” She knows what her answer has to be. “Give him an honest one, please.”

Another nod of concession. “Sure.”

She hastens to add, “Thank you, Serah…?”

“Tethras. Varric Tethras.”

“Morgana Amell. But you knew that.”

His grin has returned, and as he walks away he tosses over his shoulder, “Be seeing you, Hero.”

She watches him go with the smallest bemused shake of her head, and it takes her far longer than it should to close the door.

* * *

She’s unsurprised by the second knock at her door. It occurs that night. She’s halfway through  _A History of Kirkwall, Volume Two_ when it interrupts her, and she goes to answer the door with trembling hands.

Alistair stands outside. She’s taken aback when she sees that he’s cleaned himself up. He’s also shaved and cut his hair - it’s slightly longer than it used to be, but he could almost be the man who walked out on her during the Landsmeet. The man who took her hand and told her he loved her after they’d…

No. Bloody Void, that is  _not helping._

He clears his throat, running a hand through his hair. He’s shaking too, but he’s sober - she can’t smell alcohol on him, his posture is straight and though his eyes are afraid, they’re focused and aware. “I think we need to talk.”

She nods, stepping aside to let him through.

She takes a chair and he carefully shuts the door behind him. She’d forgotten how broad he is - he nearly fills the doorway. Though he’s more gaunt, less healthy, he’s obviously still strong. Perhaps he’s been doing something like mercenary work here. Or maybe it’s just the Warden metabolism and muscle memory.

He draws a chair from the table and sits opposite her. “So, last night was…” He trails off, rubbing his forehead.

“I’ve had better ones,” she replies levelly. “Why are you here?”

“Good question.” That small, harsh laugh again. “I just… I need to ask _why._ Why did you conscript him?” He looks at her, hurt and accusing.

She draws in a breath. Loghain. She knew this would happen. “It was a matter of addition and subtraction.” She sighs. “We had three Wardens against an Archdemon and a darkspawn army. Our odds were… They were terrible, Alistair.”

He snorts, leaning back in his chair and looking down his nose at her. “Like they’d be better with Loghain involved.”

“I thought it was one more chance to kill the Archdemon. I thought… what if we fell in the battle, if Riordan did, and the Blight continued? It would swallow Ferelden. If we lost because we’d let our hatred blind us…”

“Blind? It was  _justified.”_

“I agree. Nothing will make what he did right. But it was one more in the fight, rather than that bastard just being a useless carcass, or a martyr. If he’d survived, he would have faced trial. Wardens have to do what will give us the best chance to stop the Blight. You of all people should know that.”

“You still ended up with three Wardens.”

“I thought… I couldn’t find you, and I never thought you’d just  _leave_.”  _Or leave me,_ she wants to add, but she’s said it more than once already and once was too much. She almost wants to cry, but that thought embarrasses her and she shoves it aside. She’s already let him gain one advantage. “Even if we weren’t - The Blight still had to be fought. I looked for you, but you’d gone.”

He looks like he’s about to stand up, but instead he leans forwards with the force of his words. “ _You let him kill the Archdemon!_ You called him a hero!”

She shakes her head. “ _No._ I have never said that, whatever Anora may have told people. And do you know  _why_ I let him kill the Archdemon?”

He glares at her viciously and grits out, “You let him walk all over you? He got there first? Because you thought he was  _right_ to - ”

That does it. It opens the dam, and she’s the one to stand, to step closer. “Because killing the Archdemon kills the Warden!”

His eyes widen, and he watches her like he’s a caged animal that wants to run.

“Riordan told me after the Landsmeet. And then he died. I had to go up there knowing that if Loghain died, if something went wrong….” She inhales sharply, and is ashamed when it comes out as more of a sob. She can only seem to address the floor. “No-one would remember me with a war hero to mourn. I’d just be another body. Not even the man I loved would care. I had to go to the Archdemon knowing that. I had to go alone, after all we’d…” Her knees threaten to buckle, and she leans on the table.

“Morgana - You’re the Hero of Ferelden to them. They remember you.“

“I never expected - I never asked for that. And you didn’t remember me, so why should they?”

She hears his harsh inbreath, and then the slide of wool, the scrape of a chair. He places his hands on her arms, his touch gentle, firm.“That’s not true.”

She can’t look at him. “Of course it is.”

“No. I thought about you every day. I thought about how you were the best thing that ever happened to me, and how much you must hate me to think  _he_ was a more deserving Warden.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why didn’t you come after me? Maker knows I nearly returned so many times…”

“I wanted to, but people were dying at Amaranthine and I couldn’t be… I couldn’t be selfish. I thought you’d understand that, if I ever had the chance to explain it again. I had no choice.”

“I… That almost makes sense.”

“And,” she manages, “I don’t hate you.”

She feels his hand settle under her chin, and then he raises her head so that she’ll look at him. “No, I’m beginning to think you don’t.”

They stand there, silent, looking at each other. There’s something soft, dark in his eyes, and his mouth is a little open as if he wants to say more. She feels the way he watches her as if it’s a touch. Her lips tingle as if he’s closed the distance between them and kissed her…

It’s too much. She steps away from him. He takes a step backwards as well, looking surprised, as if he’s unsure what’s just happened. His breathing is slightly uneven.

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and then clears her throat, turning away from him. “Anora wants you dead, I think.”

He stares at her. “Well, that was… not what I was expecting.”

“Mm. She thinks there might be rebellions. That your… existence causes unrest.”

“She’s never liked me much, has she?”

She looks over her shoulder. “I’m not sure it’s about  _liking._ She thinks she’s doing the right thing for Ferelden, and that might be worse.”

He raises a brow. “I see the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” He sighs, “Maker, I need a drink.”

She ignores that, because from all she hears, it’s the last thing he needs right now. “I doubt she’ll be happy until she has your head on a pike. But I might have a solution.”

He spreads his arms and says, “Please, enlighten me.” His body language is still sarcastic, and he still talks with his hands; it’s strange to see. 

“If you were to join the Wardens again, it would reaffirm your lack of titles and you would be too well-known to simply… disappear in some dark alley. Your part in ending the Blight could be acknowledged, and you’d have the best protection from Anora that can be offered.”

“The Wardens?”

“Me,” she corrects him, so quietly that she sees him lean in to hear it. “You would barely have to speak to me, probably, but I could keep an eye.”

That brightness, that spark of surprise is in his eyes again, and he takes a careful step closer to her. Another. “Is this just concern for a fellow Warden?” 

“I…” Damn. Her throat closes. Her hands are trembling so badly that it must be visible. She puts them behind her back.

“You’re right,” he says. It’s rushed, barely more than a breath. “I shouldn’t have left you, I should have at least waited and tried to understand… tried to listen… but I was so  _angry,_ and I always feared you’d turn round and realise that I didn’t” - he inhales, swallows, tries again - “that I didn’t deserve you, or that you didn’t need me. You were saving Ferelden. I was just some nobody who survived Ostagar.” 

Staring at him, she asks, “Is that really what you think?”

Suddenly they’re two Wardens, the last Wardens, terrified and standing at the entrance to Redcliffe, the darkspawn horde behind them and the rest of the Blight ahead of them. Back then, he answered the question with a mutter about not thinking he was lucky at all, and the journey had continued in awkward silence until they reached the entrance to the village.

Now he says, softly, “I was wrong before. I think luck was on my side when I survived.” When she frowns at him, uncomprehending, he continues, “It brought me you.” 

Something makes her reach up and take his face in her hands. She needs him to look at her. She needs to touch him, to be sure this is real. She needs…

All she can manage to say is, “Please.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something, seeming to decide against it, and then…

She’s not sure which one of them moves first, but all of a sudden they’re kissing, graceless and desperate, pressed against each other, and for everything that’s changed he’s still so strong, he still feels like Alistair. It’s been far, far too long, and she almost does cry at the rightness of it, the way he feels in her arms. 

When they break apart, breathless, he says, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Alistair - “

“I should never have left you.”

She’s saddened by the heartbreak in his eyes. “And I should have gone after you. Wishing does very little.”

He sighs. “You’re right.”

“Just…” She runs a hand through his hair and rises to kiss him. 

He complies, pulling her closer. She can feel his desperation, the way he touches her as if she might disappear at any moment. She remembers two lonely years, and she remembers heartbreak. Maybe it wasn’t just her after all.

He sighs as they part, and she feels him smile. “I’ve missed that.” He keeps touching her as the silence lengthens, feather-light, caressing her cheekbones or just holding her shoulders, almost like he’s ensuring she’s real. “I love you,” he says at last. “I needed to tell you that after what happened last night, but I’ve loved you for nearly three years. I can’t imagine my life without you in it, and I’ve been such an idiot.” 

She flushes at the way he watches her - his expression is one of adoration, need. “I see,” she replies.

He shakes his head, laughing, and it’s not the miserable thing of before: it’s rich, wry, and she blushes even more at hearing it. “No, I doubt you do. I’m terrible at putting it into words.”

She has to say it. “I love you too.”

He lights up. The joy in his face is like the first time he heard it, when it had come as a surprise to both of them, and he kisses her again. Still catching his breath, he says, “Of course I’ll come with you. I’m probably hopelessly out of shape, but it’ll be good to be among Wardens again.”

“Good,” she replies. He’s smiling, and she realises after a moment that she is, too. They beam at each other embarrassingly for a few seconds before she says, her voice soft, “Do you have a room at the Hanged Man?”

“I do. It’s the nearest thing to a home I’ve had here.”

“Do - “ Her words fail her, and she tries again. “Do you think you’ll be needing it tonight?”

A surprised smile hovers round the edges of his mouth as he says, “Why, is there somewhere else I could stay?”

“Yes. If you’d like - “

“ _Yes.”_ They’re both startled by his abrupt answer, and his cheeks colour. He raises a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing at it nervously. “I mean, that would be… Yes.”

“Would you mind very much if I took you to bed?”

His voice is low, rough. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

“Excellent.” She takes his hand, leading him to the bed, and proceeds to get very little sleep that night.

* * *

She wakes to the sound of gulls and the docks. The rain has cleared, sun bright through the window. It’s perfect weather for sailing. Amaranthine is only an ocean away, and suddenly that doesn’t seem quite so far as it did.

Even so, she looks at Alistair sleeping next to her, one of his arms warm round her, and thinks she wouldn’t mind staying where she is a little while longer.


	14. on the underground (very silly modern AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this](http://suicidevsquad.tumblr.com/post/114664381581/more-meet-weirdugly-aus-you-sit-across-from-me) and [this](http://trulycertain.tumblr.com/post/129708170518/noahadler-fiona-had-always-been-shot-as-a-waif). The “I had to take the bus to comic con dressed in full knight regalia please stop laughing at me” AU, with a few changes.

Morgana has had better tube rides in her time; in fact, truthfully, she can’t think of any that have been worse. Jowan came down with a sudden blinding headache (in Jowan’s case, that tends to mean “Lily’s fluttering her eyelashes at me and we’re going back to bed instead of keeping our promise”) and so she had no lift to the party. Because of that, she’s spent the last half-hour on the underground in full mail.

She knew this was a bad idea. She’s never been one for parties; she’d much prefer to stay in with a book, her dog snoozing on her feet, but it’s been too long since she’s seen Anders and he - by his standards - all but begged her to come. A “pre-Halloween party,” he said, as if it isn’t just an excuse to drink too much and dress up in daft outfits with the rest of their friends. 

She tries not to sigh. There’s a clank of mail as she shifts, and several heads turn to stare at the sound. She knows she’s going pink, and attempts to ignore it; the knowledge will make her embarrassment worse and her face all the pinker.

Also there’s a man a couple of seats away. He’s looking at her, and not quite looking away enough. He’s slightly unshaven, about her age, with reddish-blond hair and an amused tilt to his mouth, and she is bloody  _tired_ of being laughed at. It’s happened enough times already, and while she’s rather incongruous, the armour hasn’t suddenly turned her deaf or blind.

And - oh,  _no_ \- the two seats between him and the rail she’s holding are empty.

He quietly clears his throat, and she sees what he’s going to do in his eyes before he shifts across the seats and looks up at her, that half-smile still in place. He points to the replica at her hip. “I just have to ask - is that a claymore, or…?”

“It is,” she replies, so surprised that she interrupts him. And then goes even pinker.

He nods in understanding, and there’s no mockery in his eyes when he says, ”Thought so.” He runs appraising eyes over her outfit. “You’re going for… Saxonic?”

She nods back. “With a little Celtic influence and some general fantasy. It’s, er, it’s not exactly about accuracy.” She clears her throat, starts to run a hand through her hair and then realises she’s still wearing a gauntlet. It catches, of course, and she spends several embarrassed seconds untangling herself before she manages, “Halloween costume.”

He’s been watching all this in amusement, and he runs a hand over his mouth, obviously trying not to laugh. “Right. You know, it’s only the fourth.”

She exhales and tries her best not to glare at him. “A ‘pre-Halloween’ party, apparently.” She finds herself muttering, “My friend wants to drink too much and wear his ‘sexy nurse outfit.’”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do I want to know, or…?”

With a shake of her head, she says, “It involves a stethoscope and… not much else.” She feels herself flushing again. She’s talking too much, humiliating herself further in front of someone she doesn’t even know.

“Oh. Wow. That’s… wow. I take it he’s not going for accuracy either.” He huffs a laugh, and his eyes are bright as he looks at her, amused but not cruel. Good-humoured. He cocks his head, then leans back. “Somehow I feel like medieval knights didn’t wear eyeshadow.”

She blinks a few times, suddenly re-aware of the makeup on her face, and says, “Creative anachronism.”

She finds herself smiling, and he grins back. A comfortable silence settles between them, and suddenly she’s looking away, pink in her cheeks. This is… strange. She doesn’t usually chat to strangers on public transport, and they don’t usually amuse her.

To break the silence, she says, “You seem very interested.”

His smile shrinks to something bashful, and he looks at his knees. He has awfully long eyelashes; she notices it before she can stop herself. With a quick, awkward scratch at the back of his neck, he shrugs and says, ”I… might have studied a little history?” When he looks up and she’s still watching him questioningly, he mumbles something under his breath that sounds vaguely like, “Might have a degree. And have done a few reenactments.”

Oh. That explains a lot.

He gestures to the next seat and says, “Last time I checked, this wasn’t occupied.”

She does smile at the offer, but replies, “I’m not certain I can sit down in this.” She tries shrugging, and then squats a little. She can bend her knees, but there’s a louder series of clanks, and now several heads turn. She keeps her eyes fixed on her armour and adds, “There might have been some variables I didn’t account for.” When she looks up again he’s still smiling, but there’s a softness to it. He likes her, or at least she thinks he does. It’s a surprise; she’s never been much good with people. He’s not running away, at least.

“So,” he asks, “are you anyone in particular?” When she shakes her head, he says, “Oh. Just a knight in shining armour.”

“What about you?” At his surprise, she clarifies, ”You mentioned reenactments.”

He grimaces, laughing so quietly it’s almost inaudible. “I’ve been a few people. There was one… To cut a long story short, I was Cromwell. They said I wasn’t in-character enough.” When she says nothing, just raising an eyebrow and waiting, he says, “Apparently Cromwell never wore a dress.”

Before she can think it through, she’s saying, “I hope it was a pretty dress.”

He nods and says somberly, “Oh yes. Frills and all. But not appropriate for the battlefield, they told me.” He shrugs, shaking his head, and his voice is rueful when he says, “I guess I should’ve brought a helmet.”

All at once she’s laughing, even if it isn’t that funny, and he’s beaming at her. It’s… nice, she realises with some surprise. ”I always liked history,” she says, “and I thought maybe literature… but medicine was what I wanted.” She’s glad; it lets her do something with the suffering she sees, and it’s how she met Anders.

He considers her and remarks with evident admiration, “Not just saving people when you’re in armour, then.”

She warms at the praise. “Hopefully.” And then… “Where are you heading?” she asks. She regrets the question as soon as it slips from her mouth; too personal, too intrusive.

But he just replies, “Home. Yes, I know, I have a bustling social life.” She notices the flash of… shame, perhaps, or sadness that crosses his face before he manages to hide it, and he rubs a hand across his forehead, frowning as if he wants to reprimand himself for what he’s said.

He might simply be like her, wanting to go home and cheerfully do nothing for a while. He might be some sort of axe murderer, or think she’s strange and he ought to be backing away. Even so, she’s suddenly blurting, “I hate parties.”

His eyebrows shoot up in bafflement.

“I mean, it might be better with some company. If you like odd strangers in costumes, I can find you some more.”

He watches her in surprise. “I… oh.” He opens his mouth, then shuts it. Eventually: “Are you sure?”

Half of her wants to take it back and pretend this whole embarrassment hasn’t happened, but somehow, she makes herself nod.

“I… That would be nice.” His surprise becomes distinctly pleased. He reaches up a hand, waiting. She carefully takes off her gauntlet, relieved her palms don’t appear to be sweaty and trying to keep a grip on the rail so she won’t slide across the carriage. She makes sure she won’t elbow anyone before she lets him shake her hand. His skin is warm, a little less pale than hers. He says, “Alistair.”

“Morgana,” she offers in return.

She replaces her gauntlet, unable to help the smile on her face, and thinks that Anders’ party might not be so bad after all.


	15. Happiness

(A boy shivering in a stable, trying very hard not to cry. Darkness, and horse smell. The quiet certainty that he will always be _this_ \- alone, hidden in the dark, just like every other inconvenient secret. He runs his hands over his face and hates it. It’ll never be his, not really. They’ll always look at him and see someone else. Isolde got the wrong idea and assumed the wrong father, but it’s all the same thing, in the end.)

There are some memories he puts in a box and shoves to the back of his mind. He’ll deal with them when he’s ready.That boy is one of them.

But just sometimes, he takes it out and looks at it again. He doesn’t quite know why. Maybe it’s because he can’t sleep and this night feels just a little darker than the others. Maybe it’s seeing Eamon again. Maybe… Oh, there are too many maybes.

It shouldn’t matter, really. That boy probably wouldn’t even recognise who he is now. He’d look at this Grey Warden who can make jokes about Isolde, about his father, about all of it, and…

“Alistair?”

She sits next to him, looking concerned, and he drags himself out of the reverie. A Blight doesn’t leave much time for self-pity, after all. He tries for a smile, and knows he probably falls short. “Sorry. I was miles away there.”

She frowns. That line appears between her eyebrows, and he fights the urge to smooth it away with his fingertips, to see if her skin’s warm from the fire. She says, “You seemed… sad.”

He does what comes naturally. “Me? No, I was just… considering this pebble, right here.” He points at the ground. There might even be a pebble, if he’s lucky. “See, the shiny one.”

He’s about to continue when she reaches up and runs her fingers across his eyebrows. “There’s a line you get, about here.” She touches the side of his mouth. “And that goes tighter, too.” She resettles herself next to him, leaning against his shoulder. “What is it?”

The warmth of her, the light of the fire, the quiet laughter of their companions - it all seems a long way from the cold of a stable. He opens his mouth and tries to work out how he’d explain it. “I… Nothing.”

She looks him in the eyes, her chin raised defiantly. “It didn’t seem like nothing.”

He glares at her, but there’s no real anger there. He sighs. “You’re just going to keep prodding, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she says blithely, but a smile’s starting at the corner of her mouth. She takes his hand. “Because I love you.”

It never quite loses its shine. It’s far from the first time he’s heard it, but he still looks at her in surprise. It’s like being given every gift in the world at once. It pulls at something in his chest, and he squeezes her hand.

He realises abruptly why he keeps revisiting that memory, why he keeps turning it over and over. That boy, sobbing in the dark, never once imagined he’d have any of this.

He sits with his strange sort-of friends, next to the woman he loves, and realises that this might just be the happiest he’s ever been. Blight and war and all. It crept up on him.

“I was just thinking about… this,” he says. “All of it. I never expected any of it.”

She’s still frowning. “A Blight?”

“ _You_ ,” he tells her softly, and he watches her eyes widen. He suddenly wonders if this is all so unexpected for her, too; if she sometimes looks at him and wonders how it’s possible to be so lucky. It’s unlikely. He’s thoroughly mediocre, and she’s… her.

“So you’re not sad?” she asks after a moment, still seeming surprised.

“Not any more,” he replies, and he finds to his surprise that he means it.


	16. things you said when you were crying

It’s so quiet that Morgana almost doesn’t notice it. Then she hears it again, and she recognises the sound. It’s small, hastily muffled, but it’s definitely a sob. It sounds as if someone’s biting their knuckles trying to keep it in.

Part of her thinks it might be a trap, that she’s being a fool; perhaps this is something bandits use to lure in unknowing travellers. She wouldn’t know - she’s only been out of the Tower for four and a half days. Also, it’s from further into the woods, out of the view of the camp: a decent place for an ambush.

She hears it again. Quiet, short, but rough, as if it’s being ripped from someone’s chest.

She can’t just _leave_ someone crying like that. It might be prudent, but it would be bloody cruel. She inhales a preparatory breath, taking a step into the darkness of the forest. Another, another, until she’s nearly at the source of the sound. She’s close enough that she catches what sound like muttered words.

She pauses at a tree, and peers around the trunk.

_Oh._

She stands there, wanting to squirm out of her skin at the sight before her, knowing she shouldn’t be seeing it. 

The templar’s crying.

He’s sitting with his back against the tree, as if his legs simply couldn’t hold him up anymore. He cries nearly silently, curled into himself and ashamed, and she was right - he’s biting his knuckles, only the odd sound escaping. It’s a familiar sight, a kind of crying she recognises from nights having to be quiet so she wouldn’t wake up the rest of the dormitory. He might be a templar, but he cries like a mage.

She watches, wanting to leave but frozen in her uncertainty. She supposes she could try and comfort him, but he wouldn’t thank her for it; it would probably just cause another argument, more tense miles to walk.

A dark shape moves next to him, and she jumps, her hand straying to her dagger, until she realises that it’s the dog they found at Ostagar. Brian, she called him, and she thinks the name suits him, or will come to in time.

Brian butts his nose against the templar’s shoulder with a small whine, making him look up. “Oh.” His voice is shaking, low in the dark of the forest. “Still here?” He runs a hand over the mabari’s head, and says unsteadily, “Don’t… don’t take my arm off, all right?” He sighs. “I don’t know why I’m even talking to you.”

Brian slumps with an offended sort of whine.

The templar sighs, scrubbing a hasty hand across his face. “Sorry. I know. Mabari intelligence and all that. I just…” He rests his head against the tree, staring at the stars. “I should have been with them. It just… it would have been easier that way.”

Brain gives him another nudge, harder this time.

He glares at the mabari. “Don’t give me that. You know I’m right. I should’ve just…” His voice starts trembling again, and he buries his face in his hands. “Maker, why am I _here?_ ” The sobs begin again, and his shoulders tense as he tries to hold them in. “You think you know what your life’s going to… to be… My friends are _dead_. Duncan’s dead. Maker, they’re all dead, and if there was any justice in this world, I’d be” - a sharp gasp - “I’d be with them. I should have - I let them down.”

She remembers those words. She’s said them to herself so many times, but not about the Wardens. She remembers Jowan, and she’s still certain that there was _something_ she should have done, that she should have known about the blood magic -

She looks at the templar - the man who’s had all he knew ripped away from him and wants to die - and something at the back of her thoughts reminds her sharply, _His name is Alistair. Not ‘templar.’_

She slips away as quietly as she can, and tells herself that she’ll call him by it.


	17. things you said when you thought i was asleep

He can’t help thinking it: she’s sort of sweet when she’s asleep. Even a few months ago, he wouldn’t have thought it, but now is different. He’s watched her hands tremble on a sword hilt, he’s seen her afraid and tender with her oldest friend, and she’s called him _Alistair_ instead of _templar._

And hey, she can’t give him death-glares when her eyes are closed. Well, if there’s anyone who’d find a way it’s her, but they’ve spent hours by the fire, trying to put off going to sleep because of the nightmares, and suddenly when he looked over at her she was curled up on one of the blankets they put down earlier. He’s pretty sure she’s asleep, and she’s a little less angry when she’s unconscious. Her face is soft, her eyelashes fluttering occasionally.

He shifts a little closer, uncertain whether or not to wake her. It’s a warm night, so she could probably sleep out here and not freeze, and if anyone needs some decent sleep, it’s a Grey Warden. 

“Hey,” he tries, barely more than a whisper.

He gets no response.

“Morgana?”

Again, no response, and he decides that if she’s asleep, she’s asleep.

He hopes she’s dreaming of something good. It’s probably a weird thought, but once it’s in his head, it stays. He sits there, feeling oddly like he’s keeping guard over her.

He finds himself talking quietly, softly, aimlessly into the dark. “I suppose you’re off in the Fade somewhere. I can’t pretend I’m not jealous.” He sighs, rubs a hand over his face, and looks at the trees. “I just… Maker, I hope you’re not dreaming about the Tower. I keep dreaming about that whole mess with Goldanna, and honestly, it’s nearly as bad as the Archdemon.” He huffs out a small, unconvincing laugh. “But you were there to… to talk to me afterwards, and I guess I never really… I should have said something after the Tower, after what we saw there. But you were a lot braver than I was. I was kind of busy running away from all the abominations, but you got me out of the Fade, and just kept going. Even though you looked like… well, you looked like you thought they’d drag you back. You kept looking at the templars, and I thought, _oh.”_

He clears his throat, unable to quite believe he’s saying this, but he says it anyway. “And if they had - I wouldn’t have let them, you know. I would have fought them every step of the way. _Let go, she’s the only half-decent healer we’ve got_. And the only half-decent friend I’ve got, too. I keep forgetting to mention that. I would have drawn steel on them if I had to.”

He can’t believe the confession’s come out of his mouth, but every word of it is true; he knows it in his bones. That said, he can’t believe a lot of things - for one, that he’s talking to an asleep woman and some trees. How useful. He feels his cheeks colouring, and looks back to Morgana -

\- who’s watching him, her (open! not asleep!) eyes gleaming in the firelight, the smallest of smiles on her face.

“I should…” he starts, moving to stand up. Maybe to curl up somewhere and die. That whole speech made more sense in his head. It was less overdramatic, anyway.

She reaches out and catches his arm. He stares at her, but she just gives him that small, soft smile again and says, “Thank you.”

* * *

 Months later, when she’s lying next to him, she listens to his steady breathing. She finds herself doing it occasionally, but tonight is different. Tonight every breath is a reassurance and a countdown at once. Tonight, it isn’t just her bed he’s been in.

It’s been a long day, and he’s no doubt deep in the Fade by now.

She runs a hand over his bare shoulder, and she’s not certain why she starts speaking. Maybe it’s because she’s too used to talking with him. He makes it so easy, somehow; she doesn’t think she ever talked so much before she met him. Maybe it’s because tomorrow, they face the Archdemon and the horde, and some things still need to be said. Even if they’re not heard, she needs to say them for her own sanity. So she talks to his back in the half-darkness.

“I don’t think I can do this without you,” she says to him, even knowing he can’t hear her. “You make things easier. You’re…” She inhales sharply, her fingers ghosting over his arm. “If only you could see what I see. I always wonder how someone so brave and so beautiful could ever want…” Another inhale. She feels the tears coming, so she swallows and tries again, tries to make sense. “I love you, and… please don’t leave me.” Her eyes sting, and she wipes a hasty hand over them. “Please,” she murmurs, as if saying it enough times will make it a spell, a ward of protection.

She slides closer and tucks herself into him, drawing from his warmth, a hand around his waist. She jumps when she feels his fingers curl around hers, and he squeezes her hand. He shifts away from her, and then turns to face her. He looks tired, his eyes heavy and most of a beard coming in, but he certainly isn’t asleep. He gives her a smile and says gently, “I love you, too.” He wraps an arm round her and pulls her closer, wrapping himself around her. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

She looks at him, at the love in his eyes, and almost dares to believe him.


	18. Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen, Morgana and the demons of Kinloch Hold. This one's dark, folks.

There’s blood on his hands. He wishes he meant that figuratively, but it’s all over his armour, all over his face; he took off his gauntlets in desperation and it stained his fingers, was crusted under his nails…

He opens his mouth, tastes copper and salt. At least he can do that; at least he knows where he is. It tells him the demon has left him, at least for the moment. Perhaps it thinks its torture will affect him more if it allows him a brief respite, lulls him into a false sense of security. It’s likely right.

He remembers the others falling and their screams. Worse, he remembers them changing, willingly submitting rather than facing the reality of what the Tower had become.

Maybe he should too. Maybe he should close his eyes and simply forget.

He’s nineteen, and before he thought that was old enough. He’s been with the Chantry since he was thirteen, spent years learning how to serve, but nothing trained him for this. He feels young, foolish. He was so utterly unprepared.

“Cullen?”

He looks up in surprise at that quiet voice. At first he thinks it’s the demon wearing Amell’s face again, but he has never seen her like this. He remembers a quiet, often sad girl in robes; this woman in armour, stained with blood, with a sword at her hip and such terrible _anger_ in her eyes… This is not Amell. Or perhaps it is. Perhaps he never really knew her at all.

He begs her to do the right thing. They’re gone, all of them, dead or twisted and wrong. Any that survive soon will be. They must be stopped.

He sees her horror at hearing the truth, and then that anger again. He saw glimpses of it when she’d spot templars watching her, when she heard of someone who hadn’t lived through the Harrowing, but it was quickly veiled. Now he truly sees it, and it is a bright thing in this dull place. He would almost admire it if it wasn’t so foolish.

“I will save everyone who can be saved,” she grits out. “ _Including_ the mages.”

That idealism, the thing he heard when she spoke to her friends, the thing he inferred from the books she read - it will damn her. It will be her undoing, their undoing.

He begs her and she turns from him, making her way into the Harrowing chamber.

He remembers the girl who used to be determined to heal, who would conjure beautiful, harmless fire with a thought. He remembers the girl who would laugh with Jowan, quiet but sparkling. He remembers the girl who all but devoured books, hair falling into her eyes and face soft, knees tucked up to her chest in a quiet corner of her library. He remembers the stupid boy who used to be infatuated with her.

He watches this stranger walk away from him, tasting blood and knowing that something has been lost.


	19. things you never said at all

She nearly says it so _many_ times. It sits at the tip of her tongue, and if she’s not careful she’ll blurt it out and probably scare him off. 

 _I love you_ , she nearly says, when she wakes up groggy and terrified from a nightmare and he’s waiting for her with a cup of tea.

 _I love you,_ she nearly says, when he kisses her gently, slowly, as if he can’t believe it’s happening, as if he’s been given a gift.

 _I love you,_ she nearly says, every time she remembers him saving her, pulling her from the river and looking at her like she was his world.

 _I love you,_ she nearly says, when she’s growing tired, every mile of road beginning to look the same, and she feels him take her hand, looks up to see him watching her concernedly.

 _I love you,_ she nearly says, every time she’s behind his shield and knows he’s taking a blow that hurts him, but would probably would have broken her bones. 

She opens her mouth so many times, tries to draw the words up from her chest into her mouth… but they won’t quite come. All the _I love yous_ float away on the wind, unsaid.

* * *

 He wonders if she feels this, too. This pull, this… all of it. It astonishes him sometimes, the way he so constantly seems to _need_ her. The way he feels better just by knowing she’s next to him. _I love you,_ he thinks all the time, trying his best not to say it, certain she’ll bolt if he does.

 _I love you,_ he nearly says, when she’s patching him up, running careful fingers over a scrape on his temple. Well, he says scrape - he more means he got bashed with a pommel. She works carefully, gently, her face a mixture of concern and concentration… and then the pain’s just _gone,_ and all he can feel are her soft hands. She draws back, and he presses a kiss to her hand, enjoying the way she blushes. He opens his mouth - _No. Not yet._

 _I love you,_ he nearly says, when she sits next to him, her head on his shoulder, nose-deep in a book. She probably wouldn’t hear him, anyway; too deeply involved in the adventures of Garahel.

 _I love you,_ he nearly says, when she finally gets the hang of a greatsword and grins at him, eyes bright, looking like something from the cover of a cheesy romance novel. But no, he decides, she probably needs to concentrate on her stance rather than him being a lovelorn idiot.

 _I love you,_ he nearly says, when she falls asleep by the fire and he carries her to her bedroll, seeing the slight smile on her face, enjoying the feeling of having her in his arms. But she’s asleep, and she’d need to hear it. The first time he says it, he needs her to hear it.

So the words are gone, and he’s not sure how to drag them back.

* * *

 “Have I mentioned I love you?”

It just falls out of his mouth. He figured this would be about the right time to say it, but he wasn’t sure he’d have the nerve. Then this happened, and with her curled around him, smiling at him, bright and gorgeous in the morning light… Well, it seemed the right time.

He waits for her to turn and run, but instead she stares at him, a brilliant joy dawning on her face, and says, “I love you too.”

And the words stay.


	20. things you said when you were scared

He remembers trudging through the Fade, trying to carry on an unwelcome debate with Hawke about the future of the Wardens, about whether there was a use for them at all, and then… 

He remembers the Nightmare, the vastness of it. The way it had told him that he was never going home. There’d been the usual stuff about the throne, the Archdemon… but it was that last one that had really got to him.

He’d believed it, utterly. He’d been certain it was saying the truth. Maybe it could even see the future. Who knew, with demons? They were always full of nasty surprises. He was a Warden, and Wardens pretty much always died alone, in a dark cave or making some kind of heroic sacrifice. Well, he’d missed out on the chance for the heroic sacrifice, what with the lack of Archdemon-killing, but having seen Crestwood, he’d had enough of dark caves for a lifetime.

 _You’ll never return to her,_ the Nightmare said, and he believed it. Maker help him, he believed it.

And then he remembered her. The brightness of her eyes, the beauty of her smile, her bravery and her quiet laughter. And he tightened his grip on his sword and carried on, until he came face to what could barely be called a face with the Nightmare.

 _You’ll never return to her,_ it told him again, calmly, smugly, and he knew the truth of it. He raised his sword - 

* * *

 “Alistair?”

He snaps awake, gasping, trying not to cry.

Morgana’s leaning over him, hopelessly tangling the sheets, worry on her face and a summoned magelight floating next to her. She reaches out a hand to him, and he takes it, pulling her in and holding her as tightly as he can.

They stay like that for a minute, maybe two, and then she draws back and says, “What is it?” Nightmares are thankfully rare for them these days, but that also means they’re more significant than they used to be.

He runs his hand down his face, still trying to get his breath back, and then say, “When I went with Hawke and the Inquisitor… I dreamt it wasn’t Hawke that died.” He looks at her significantly.

Her eyes widen slightly, and then she says, “You’ve told me this story. I remember what it said to you.” She puts a hand on his shoulder, runs it up his neck and through his hair. “Do you remember what you said?”

“I said…” And he rests his hands on her arms, solid, grounding. “I said, ‘I’ll always come home to her.’” He leans forwards, wrapping her in another hug. “Always.”


	21. Subtlety

The bed’s still warm. It’s a small thing, but it bothers him. It means she left recently, so he’s only just missed it. He must have slept through it.

Morning light breaks gold through the window. It’s a quiet, sleepy morning, absolutely perfect to spend in bed with the one you love. Except he can’t. He tries not to shiver, cold without the warmth and the steadiness of her against him, even if Wardens do run hot.

He can imagine what she would have done. It’s clear in his mind’s eye: her kissing his nose, shaking her head at her own soppiness, and then slipping out of the room. Heading off to Amaranthine, leaving him here so he can kill darkspawn stragglers and pretend not to notice Anora glaring at him.

She’s miles away, and he’s left here with - he looks to his side - only a note for company. He sits up, yawning and rubbing at his eyes, and then unfolds the note to squint at it. It’s the usual sort of thing: a command not to let Anora annoy him too much, something about her having bought him a new shield, and at the end…

_I love you. It won’t be long, even if it seems otherwise. I know you’ll be fine without me; you’re a strong, capable man, and a good one, too. Look after Brian for me?_

He sighs, and then he hears a ground-shaking, galloping sort of sound…

Brian bursts through the door, looking at him expectantly, all lolling tongue and doggy grin.

He sighs. “She said goodbye to you, didn’t she?”

An affirmative bark and what he swears is a nod. Maker, the dog’s too smart for his own good sometimes.

“At least you were awake for it.” Brian pads over to him and looks at him pleadingly. Alistair gives another sigh, knowing exactly what the mabari’s asking for, and reaches out to scratch him behind the ears. “I suppose it’s just you and me, then.”

A few minutes later, when he’s let the dog back out, got himself mostly cleaned up and dragged himself to a looking-glass, he finds that his hair has been carefully smoothed down across his forehead. It’s not in a way that can be explained by sleep, either; it’s the exact way she does it to annoy him, knowing he’ll have to tease it all back into place and that he thinks it makes him look like a gawky teenager when it’s left to fall. He notices something else, too, rubs a smear of lilac eyeshadow off his cheek. He was right; she kissed him goodbye.

He tries to carry that thought with him. He straightens his spine, works to relax his shoulders, and prepares himself for the days without her.

* * *

 It’s the sort of warm, soft rain that comes on sunny days and isn’t too much of a bother. “Rainbow weather,” Anders calls it. He’s right, Morgana thinks; it has that sort of feeling to it. Or maybe it’s just her mood. She shakes her head at what a daft thought that is, glad she’s in her quarters and there’s no-one to see her.

…Yet.

She finds herself smiling as she buckles on her vambraces. She’s still smiling as she looks at herself in the mirror and adjusts her tabard. She knows she must look a fool, but honestly, it’s hard to care.

She blinks, feeling the weight of the makeup on her eyelids. It’s the first time she’s worn it in several weeks; she wanted something from the Blight, as a reminder. To give him a reminder.

“Commander!” someone calls.

She turns at the sound and finds one of their newer recruits rushing through the door. She left it open for this reason, and Haveley skids to a breathless stop in front of her. “The, the constable has been sighted close to here.” There’s a pause, and then the woman looks up at her and asks hesitantly, “Did you really travel together during the Blight?”

Morgana nods, still feeling that soppy grin all over her face. “He’s a friend,” she replies. (And much more besides, but she still doesn’t know whether the Wardens really do have fraternisation regulations. It isn’t as though there was anyone to ask, after all.)

Haveley turns on her heel and speeds off again, and Morgana watches her go in bemusement. Alistair would have something to say about how frighteningly efficient the recruit is, and she looks forward to hearing it. She’s missed having a wry running commentary next to her. It’s the quiet that gets her as much as the empty bed and the lack of a shield. He always knows just the right thing to say - he can alleviate the tension. She probably just adds to it, quiet and serious at the front.

Anders helps - and him and Alistair, now there’s a thought, because it’ll either have her unable to do her job for laughter or annoy her half to death - but she can’t cry in front of Anders. He’s not the friend she left in the Circle, not anymore; too much has passed for that. And he’s certainly not _Alistair_. He’s not the one who holds her at the end of the day and makes silly comments until she’s laughing herself to sleep, or who takes her aside and kisses her like she’s a gift.

She inhales, and then walks swiftly through the keep, doing her best not to run. She keeps her back straight and tries to assume a “businesslike commander” expression. She forgets, sometimes: she’s only twenty-one, and there were apprentices at the Circle that age who would giggle over boyfriends and stumble into closets. Maybe that’s what she should be doing, but those apprentices didn’t have the fate of a country on their shoulders. Even so, there were days where she’d look at him, and it almost wouldn’t be a burden at all. She was, perversely, almost grateful for it, because it brought her… him. She looked at him and she almost believed they’d make it.

She speeds up, unable to help herself, as she hears the sound of hooves, padding footsteps a little behind them.

There are already several Wardens standing outside the keep. She walks past them, nodding as she makes her way out into the courtyard, and sees. One rider, Warden armour faintly clanking, frowning down at the reins, a mabari trying to run with the horse. The shine of sunlight on fair hair.

And then he looks up, and their eyes meet. While he’s drawing to a stop and dismounting, she’s already walking across the yard, far faster than is strictly dignified, and in moments she’s in his arms.

She feels his surprise, and he rocks back on his heels from the force of it - then he’s holding her close, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder. His voice is soft and for her ears alone as he says, “Missed me, huh?”

“More than you know.” She’s pressed so tight to him, her face against his neck and ear, that it comes out muffled.

She knows that he’s smiling, knows with every bone in her body that he wants to kiss her. She partly knows because she feels the same. But she’s already thrown herself at him, and the hug was enough. They had an agreement. Colleagues and friends to the rest of the keep, at least until they know what the situation with the Wardens is.

She steps back a little, putting a half-foot between them, clearing her throat. He grins at her, and it’s still bright, even with the tiredness round his eyes and the heavy stubble. It’s still enough to make her want to stop and stare, perhaps bask in it a little. She notices the stubble is not as heavy as it could be, however. “You shaved,” she says.

The grin, if anything, widens. “This morning, yes. Was that meant to sound so accusatory?” He shrugs. “What can I say? I wanted to look presentable for my commanding officer.”

She grunts, grimacing, aware the others can’t hear them and grateful for it in the face of her indignity. “Ugh. Don’t.”

He just smirks at her. “Well, I’ll have to, won’t I, what with being your lackey?” He nods at her and adds, “Commander.” It has a dark, wry edge to it, and she tries her best not to blush. It sounds like he’s talking to her in their bedroom. She knows from his amusement that it’s intentional.

“Constable,” she responds curtly, fighting the urge to smile, or to roll her eyes.

She bends to greet Brian. “Hello. Been a while, hasn’t it?”

He gets barky and nearly knocks her over with the force of a dog-hug, and she doesn’t even try to look displeased.

“Hasn’t been the same without you,” she tells him, giving him a thorough ear-scratch.

She brings her attention back to Alistair, and turns to the other Wardens, who are quite a way away. “I ought to introduce you.”

She sees the way his eyes light up at seeing them. She wonders for a moment if this is what it was like before Ostagar. He swallows, evidently caught between anticipation and nervousness, as if it might all disappear at any moment.

They start the walk back to the keep, and they’ve taken a couple of steps when he gives her a companionable clap on the back as if to any friend, leans in and says into her ear, “I love you.”

He’s right back to a brisk walk afterwards, and in a matter of moments they’re within earshot of the others, but she gives him one of the broad, bright smiles she reserves only for him.

Maker, she really is like a lovesick apprentice. She spends dinner opposite him, noticing all the little things she’d… not quite forgotten, but not taken as much stock of, in the months they were apart. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, the length of his eyelashes, the wry tone his voice takes on when he’s working up to a good punchline…

She tries not to be too obvious about it, but it pleases her seeing him with the rest of their odd little group. He’s a good sport when Anders and Oghren tease him, cringing but prodding them right back (partly because Oghren was told firmly that their relationship was not keep business, and despite his general reluctance to let a good innuendo pass, she knew he’d listen to her.) A room is different with him in it, at least to her. She remembers telling him awkwardly, quietly, a few months into their journey, _I… I really enjoy your company_ , unable to look for too long at his pleased, surprised expression. She still does.

Anders makes a few off-colour remarks about the two of them and Nathaniel glares at him, muttering darkly.

Oghren snorts, taking a heavy swig from his tankard. “Hey, what happens in the Blight stays in the Blight, huh?”

She and Alistair glance at each other, the air thick between them, and then the moment’s gone. It doesn’t seem to have been noticed by the others, much to her relief.

They talk a couple of hours more, Alistair telling her about Denerim and making a few jokes at Anora’s expense. She knows him well enough to see the way his shoulders are sagging, and more and more frequently, he rubs at his temples or his forehead, blinking.

Eventually she reaches across and touches his arm. He looks to her questioningly, and she says, “You seem tired. It was a long ride, wasn’t it?” When he nods, she continues, “If there’s one lot who know the value of good sleep, it’s Wardens. You can go to bed, you know.”

He looks like he’s not quite sure how to feel. Grateful for the reprieve, and yet there’s a hint of regret in his eyes. It takes her a moment to place what it is, and then she realises: it’s the thought of sleeping alone, even in the same building. It’s exactly the way she feels.

He says, “In that case, I’ll leave you all to it.” The flicker in his smile is brief, but there. He leaves for his room, and she carefully doesn’t watch him go.

More minutes and then an hour pass, and others begin to filter out of the room until only she’s left at the table. Sometime during all this, she’s managed to drag some paperwork into the hall and is sorting through it. She’s halfway through the week’s accounts when she hears Anders in the corridor.

“It’s not just me, is it?”

“Mm?” Nathaniel sounds tired and unwilling to cooperate, but Anders can have you in a conversation hook, line and sinker before you entirely know what’s happened.

“She’s happier. Come on, I know you’ve seen it.”

“She might be.”

“And that makes me wonder… There’s no way those two were just friends. The poor sap looks like he’s in love.”

“That’s because he is.” Nathaniel’s voice is quiet, but she still hears it, and she glares at the door as if her eyes can penetrate the wood. Betrayal, from such an unexpected source. “Now go to bed, Anders. Some of us need sleep.”

And then all is quiet again, and she’s left with her thoughts. _Bed_. Now there’s an idea.

She tucks all the paperwork into some sort of vaguely organised pile, then climbs reluctantly up all the stairs while trying not to drop any parchment. She opens the door to her quarters, dumps it all on her personal desk as quietly as she can, careful not to disturb Brian at the foot of her bed, and then…

She looks at the bed and it’s too big. This shouldn’t be a problem, she spent weeks adjusting and it’s been months, but with him half a corridor away…

Sod it. This is ridiculous.

She finds herself awkwardly creeping along the corridor, and then she stands outside his door. She raises a hand, hesitates -

She hears a low sigh, and then he says, voice probably muffled by bedsheets, “I’ve never met anyone else whose magic felt like yours. I’m awake, by the way.”

Bugger. She should have remembered the templar training.

The door creaks as she opens it, and she squints into the half-darkness. He’s got a candle lit, and he’s lying on his stomach, head by the bottom of the bed, glaring at a book. He looks up, his face softening at the sight of her.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks.

He gives a huff of humourless, resigned laughter. “What’s new?”

She tries for a smile, a little worried at seeing him dark-eyed and exhausted. “Would it help if…?” And she nods down the corridor, towards her quarters.

“Wouldn’t that be a breach of protocol?” It’s probably more bitter than he intended.

“Sod protocol. We can be subtle. Come on,” she says long-sufferingly, and she sees happiness sneak up on him, brightening his face.

He grabs a shirt, throws it on, and then he’s following her through the door. She lets them into her quarters, stifling a yawn, and turns to him. He’s got that look on his face, the one she knows too well, and then he’s stepping forward to kiss her softly, slowly. She responds, enjoying the feeling of being held, letting it linger.

He releases her with a sigh. “I’ve wanted to do that since I arrived.”

“Good.” She adds, with the hint of a laugh, “Now sleep.”

The shirt gets thrown aside and he flumps into her bed with another exhale, this one of relief rather than reluctance. “I’m pretty sure this one is softer than mine.”

“Well, it’s an important Warden-Commander bed,” she says, climbing in alongside him.

“For an important Warden-Commander,” he says as she curls against him, her head on his chest, and there’s something about his expression…

“What?” she demands, after a few seconds pass and she’s faintly suspicious of the softness in his face. (In actuality, she’s curious: she always wonders what he sees when he looks at her like that.)

He shakes his head. “Nothing. I’ve just… I’ve missed this.”

She leans up to kiss his jaw. “Have I mentioned I love you?”

“I love you, too.” His words are low, drowsy.

She feels him curl around her, warm, protective, and there, with her strange little family, she falls asleep in moments.


	22. Nearly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A close call and some tears. Based on [a Tumblr prompt.](http://trulycertain.tumblr.com/post/144722648753/otpdisaster-person-a-the-more-stoicserious-of)

“It nearly had you.”

Alistair hisses as Morgana examines the wound in his side. She winces in sympathetic pain, but she continues her work. He sits on a log, as calm as it’s possible to be when someone’s probing your almost-fatal wound, and crouches next to him. He feels the warmth of magic wash over him, and he closes his eyes for a moment, until he opens them to speak to her.

“Only nearly,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm. “And at least it wasn’t an ogre.”

A shriek, actually. One which had nearly skewered him when it had appeared out of nowhere.

“At least it wasn’t an ogre? Well, that’s all bloody right then…” she mutters, and her grumpiness would make him laugh except for the way she can’t quite look at him and her face is twisted in pain. “It hit an _artery._ I thought… _”_

He only notices it because she moves her fingers away from the wound, and there’s the slightest scrape of her callouses against the now-undamaged skin. Imprecise. Not like her, usually, except when something’s wrong. 

“Your hands are shaking,” he notes, his voice rougher and quieter than he intended it to be. The moment stretches, and he knows he sounds too worried, so he adds, trying for a grin, “I didn’t think I was _that_  frightening.”

There’s a silence. Silent Morgana is bad, so he looks down at her. Her head is lowered, and she’s looking at the ground, even as her hands rest on him. Her hair is a curtain round her face. For a moment she seems far away, impossible to reach, and he remembers the days after they first met. He can’t let her retreat again. He reaches out, feels for her face.

When his hand touches what must be her cheek, she makes the smallest sound. It would almost be a breath, but he knows her too well for that. It’s a sharp, shaking inhale, and he realises too late that his fingers are damp. That sound comes again, and this time it’s a definite sob.

He wants to stop and stare. Morgana doesn’t cry, or at least, not much. He’s seen it perhaps two times, and they’ve been together two and a half years. They’ve only recently found each other again; surely they should be happy? And this… worse has happened. What is it about _this?_

But instead of contemplating his own navel and the state of their relationship, he tries to reach her, because he’s obviously been an arse and he has to do _something_ , even if he doesn’t know what it is.

He raises her head, brushes the hair from her face, and lets her lean against him. “Morgana?” She shakes her head a little, and he keeps touching her, keeps making her look at him. “What is it?”

“I…” She swallows. “I’m not afraid of _you_. I’m afraid of _losing_ you, you bastard. I spent six bloody months with talking bloody darkspawn waiting to be with you again, and if you’d… Bastard.”

He smiles, or at least attempts to. “Yes, we’ve established that.” He takes her hand in his own and kisses it, then pulls her closer until he’s holding her. It’s cramped and uncomfortable, but he couldn’t care less. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to let go. Maybe not ever. “I’m sorry for nearly dying at you.”

He feels her shake her head. “It’s not…” There are a few more sobs, high and hitching, sounds so unlike her. Then she says. “I’m sick of loving you. It’s too much hard work.”

Once he would have been afraid of those words. He was always certain someone would say them to him without irony, if they came to love him at all. But this is Morgana, and he knows Morgana. So he smiles instead. “No, you’re not.”

“No I’m not,” she mutters into his neck, her hands still on his chest.

And he holds her, there in their makeshift little camp, with his back cramping up and her listening to his heartbeat, as the rain begins.

 


	23. Hindsight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miserable AU drabble.

He never understood it, as a boy. He guesses it’s because he never had anyone to lose. He didn’t understand what would make someone close down so completely, become a shadow of who they were. How it could be so all-consuming until it seemed like they thought of, they _were_ , nothing else.

After Ostagar, he knew. It hit him like a hammer, and he could barely breathe with the force of it. He’d find himself raising a hand to his chest in odd, quiet moments, as though he’d find a wound to explain the pain that had him doubled over, made walking painful. But his fingers never came away bloody, even though it kept hurting.

And she told him she understood. She told him it was all right to feel like this, and they sat together late into the night, firelight reflecting in the blue of her eyes. She touched his arm. He felt the warmth of her fingers and the firmness behind that soft touch. He wanted to take her hand and hold it between his, gripping tightly onto something so _alive_. Bright when nothing else was.

…And the pain faded, bit by bit, until he wasn’t sure whether that distant ache in his chest was from mourning or feeling guilty about _not_ mourning. She stayed next to him, bright, alive, certain, and he started to believe against all odds that the sun could rise every day; that just sometimes, the world could be fair.

He should have known better, really, but he’s always been a little slow on the uptake.

She kissed him and he felt her breathe, felt her heart hammer in her chest. A moment of perfection, grabbed and held tight when the Blight was trying to take it away.

He should remember that most of all. But there are days when other moments are brighter in his mind. He remembers her turning to him, radiant and brave, as she left him at the gates. The certainty in her eyes as she ignored his protests. 

Most of all, he remembers being handed the body; looking into those eyes and knowing that the soul was gone. That the world had lost something irreplaceable.

And there’s something sick about the fact that, now that light is gone, he holds even tighter to the memory of it. It’s almost easier to love her as a memory, without the Blight and a duty in the way. The exact shade of her eyes, the way she smiled, the way her magic felt… all of it.

He keeps waiting for it to fade, but it’s been ten years, and he thinks the love might kill him. He’s still having to remind himself to wake up in the mornings, still waiting for the blood.

And he wishes he’d known how much he had to lose.


	24. An unsent letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More miserable Ultimate Sacrifice AU.

_(An unsent letter in a drawer at Vigil’s Keep.)_

Alistair,

If you’re reading this, then I’m sorry. I’m less bothered about a Theirin, but Ferelden needed a good man. You have every right to hate me for this - I would, especially if a coward only gave me a letter and an apology - but I hope that you won’t hate yourself. You’re too quick to resort to that sort of thing, and there’s nothing about you worth hating.

I wish I’d been able to speak to you. I wish I’d been able to tell you the truth, but then I might have lost my nerve. We worked to save this nation - our nation; letting it fall into civil war would be rather a waste of time after all that, don’t you think? I couldn’t leave the throne empty.

I found Duncan’s shield. I meant to give it to you, but everything happened so fast. It’s in my quarters. I wish I’d been able to give it to you properly. There are a few trinkets and notes I’d meant to give you, too. Keep them, if you want to.

Tell our friends I’m sorry, but that I hope they’ll understand. The little box with the powder? That should be Leliana’s. Return it to her, if you can. And if it’s possible, tell Irving thank you, and that I’m sorry. There are a few books that may have been unofficially borrowed from the Circle library - do me a favour and return them.

Do me one more favour, if you will: forget me. Or at least, move on. You’re strong and you’re resilient, and you haven’t let anything else that’s hurt you in the past define you. I shouldn’t be the exception.

I don’t regret anything, except for hurting you. I regret not being able to stay. This kingdom, your kingdom, will be something to behold. I know it will. I know you.

You taught me how to raise a sword, to stand my ground, to protect. You taught me how to be brave. I need to put those lessons to good use. This is what I want. I’ve rarely had much choice about anything, and you have to allow me this.

Remember: you are loved, always. I should have told you more.

Live. Be happy.

 


	25. Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana, Leliana and friendship.

The nightmare comes unbidden to her that night, starting sweet, Marjolaine’s arms around her once again. It swiftly dissolves into blood and screams, and she remembers the cells…

She wakes sweating and, letting out a yell of alarm, finds she’s clawing at the canvas. She at last realises where she is, and that there’s someone in the tent with her. Morgana sits next to her, also clad in a nightshirt and a pair of simple leather breeches; the woman watches her face in concern. Seeing she’s awake, Morgana asks softly, “Lel?”

“What? Why are you here?” She sits up quickly, looking at Morgana wide-eyed, still bedraggled from sleep.

“I heard you,” Morgana replies. “I’m sorry, I’m just… used to it…” Her eyes are far away for a moment, and Leliana wonders what she could mean. “I should probably go…”

Leliana takes her arm as she makes to stand, and the request is quiet. She curses her voice as it shakes. “Stay. I… I would appreciate a friend tonight.”

A moment of silence, their eyes meeting, and Morgana nods, again sinking to the floor. “Are you all right? I don’t like to leave someone alone after a dream like that…” Her voice trails off, and Leliana knows her too well to miss the unspoken words hanging between them.

“Like what? Morgana, what did you hear?” She doesn’t mean for the steel to slide into her voice, but she must know.

The mage swallows, and is hesitant when she finally speaks. “You were screaming names. Over and over.”

Sleep paralyses, does it not? “I thought that wasn’t possible…” Leliana begins, then she notices Morgana’s suddenly tense posture, that her eyes are always elsewhere. “There is something you aren’t telling me.” Silence. She puts a finger under the mage’s chin, makes her look at her. “I know you, please do not try and hide from me.”

Morgana briefly closes her eyes, seeming unable to find the words, then says, quietly, “I went into the Fade to find you. You can’t do it with Warden dreams, I… think they’re in the Black City itself…” A strange fear clouds the mage’s eyes for a moment, and then she exhales. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, I just thought it was worth a try; after the Tower… I thought I might be able to do something…”

Now Leliana notices the telltale, slightly unnatural lyrium blue still in the woman’s eyes. From the ritual, no doubt. “You saw all of it?”

A shake of the head. “No, not everything. I didn’t want to. But… probably enough.” A pause. “I did my best. I’m not about to repeat the experience.”

Leliana looks levelly at her for a moment, then smiles; she knows it looks small, and sad, and not nearly enough. “I suspect that is a good thing. Thank you for the attempt, however.”

Morgana looks at her feet, muttering something like, “The road to the Black City is paved with good intentions…”

Leliana begins her search, finally retrieving the tiny, fragrant bag, then, clothed, climbs out of the tent. Morgana doubtfully follows her, looking surprised when Leliana hands her a large pot. “If you could bring some water…”

“Certainly.” The mage heads off to the river, and Leliana takes a seat by the fire, sighing. Head in her hands, she shuts her eyes to try and block out the memories.

“Excellent,” she says, looking up as she hears Morgana placing the pot above the fire. She assesses it, pours the excess out of the pot, then hangs it back. Morgana pauses before lighting the campfire.

She waits until the time is right before adding the mixture, stirring it gently. There should be milk, but this will do. It probably seems a luxury after Alistair’s cooking. At Morgana’s curious look, she explains, “ _Chocolat chaud_. Herbs and ground bean from Rivain. From Denerim, for occasions such as these.” She sighs. “It has been years, but they come occasionally.”

Emptying it into two mugs, she passes one to Morgana, who looks down at it warily before taking a cautious sip. Her eyes widen briefly, and she takes another. “This is… unexpected,” the mage murmurs.

“They did not have this in the Tower?” Leliana asks, surprised when Morgana shakes her head. It seems mages are denied even the simplest of pleasures. She remembers her friend’s surprise at make-up, and sadly, minutely, shakes her head.

Morgana’s words come back to her then, and she says quietly, “Used to it. You said you were used to it.” She looks into the other woman’s eyes. “What do you have nightmares about?”

Morgana looks into the fire, cradling her cup and seeming to think for a moment. “The Archdemon. The Tower.” A pause, and she adds quietly, “Coronations.” She seems to come out of her trance, and looks up at her, holding up the cup. “Thank you.”

Leliana nods, smiles. “I’ve heard you, in your sleep. And him. Is this something to do with… your station?”

Morgana sighs. “We are tainted. We will always be tainted. Infertility, a short lifespan and crippling nightmares for the first few months, apparently. He could barely tell me.”

“I’m sorry. I should not have reminded you. But I am here,” she says firmly, placing a hand over Morgana’s. “I am always here, if you need me.”

The mage looks up, and seems so very young in the flickering firelight, eyes surprised. Then she smiles, and looks more like the Warden that leads them all, the vulnerability carefully tucked away. It will resurface soon enough.

Leliana wonders how long it has been since she’s had a simple friendship like this, not one muddied by blood and lust, or by Chantry duty.

“You know I am,” Morgana says quietly, and it is enough.


	26. A Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. A short take on something from OTP Prompts on Tumblr: “Person A has died. Person B gets sent on an adventure that sends them a few years back in the past. Once their mission is complete they are about to go back to the present. But right before they go, they see their past self meeting person A and they stay a little longer to watch.”

Ostagar looks different from the way she remembered it: bleached, practically crumbling in the sun. It looks, truly, like the tomb it was.

It makes sense. Everything’s different - or it will be, at least. Loghain lies dead in a tent, yet to be discovered, and this time… This time, there will be Wardens. This time, she won’t have to watch the man she loves die. She will go home, and wherever he is, he’ll be alive. 

Time magic, they’d said. An impossibility, or a trap, she’d assumed, until she was standing on Ostagar stone and the world was new again. She knows even as it tugs at her that she can’t stay, that she can’t waste time fighting for a glimpse - 

A flash of blue, and the part of her that spent fifteen years in a Circle will always recognise it. Apprentice’s robes, bloodstained and torn. Fair, tangled hair, and a dagger at her hip. No wonder he seemed so wary of her when they met; she looks like a mess, and a dangerous one.

She watches herself trudge up the slope, to where there will be an argument, and a meeting, and can’t help herself. She trails afterwards, just enough paces behind, with just enough corners and shadows between them. That slow walk up the slope, and the faint sound of voices, growing louder. And… 

It’s just a moment. She shouldn’t be here and it will fade, but just for a moment, maybe she can have this.

She is scarred and exhausted, a greatsword on her back and the world on her shoulders, trying to hold the Fereldan Wardens together with will and rage and hope. She is nineteen, wide-eyed and soft round the edges. Uncertain and bright with new freedom, trying not to laugh because someone is mocking Senior Enchanter Smythe and she can’t think of a man who deserves it more.

She watches Smythe shove past the her of two years ago. She steps around the corner, doing her best to look inconspicuous. It might be the hood, or perhaps she’s just changed that much, but Smythe doesn’t even give her, _this_ her, a second glance as he passes. She cranes her neck to look.

His hair shines in the sun. His smile is as warm as she remembered, and she feels her lips curling reflexively in response. Infectious, she always called his smile and his laugh. He’s beautiful, and she wonders how she could ever have spent days without this; how she could have lived and tried to pretend she was happy. Her chest aches. It’s almost too much to look at him, but it’ll never be enough.

“You know,” he says, “one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

She watches herself shuffle forwards awkwardly, battling with apprentice skirts, brushing her hair out of her face. Her smile is sudden, but almost blinding, and for a moment, she understands how he could have called her beautiful. “I know exactly what you mean.”

They stand there, new and with every story still to tell, and she allows herself this. Just for a moment.


	27. Old friend

Leliana’s heart sinks at the hopeful look in Morgana’s eyes even before she speaks. “After everything at Amaranthine… I could do with some help on this one. I could always use a friend.”

Leliana’s Chantry robes all at once seem so very heavy on her shoulders. “Morgana…”

The hope in Morgana’s eyes fades, and she looks resigned. Sad. Leliana recognises the look from their earliest days travelling together, and she wishes she hadn’t been the one to cause it. “The Chantry?” Morgana says.

Leliana nods. “The Chantry. They need me, and I cannot simply abandon them. I have been called…”

Morgana’s eyes narrow. 

“ _The Divine_ has asked for me,” Leliana says. She places a hand on Morgana’s shoulder. “And I am sorry. You are my most beloved friend, but I have a duty…”

Morgana nods, her eyes still on the ground and her shoulders slumped. “I understand. And thank you for telling me.” She looks up. “I’ll see you?”

“You will.” Leliana hugs her before she can protest, holding her tightly. This is likely the last chance she will have for a long time.

Morgana hesitates, and then her hands raise to touch Leliana’s back, and she hesitantly relaxes into it. 

Then it’s over, and the Warden-Commander walks through the door and back into danger, her head held high.

Leliana watches her, and sighs.

 


	28. Illuminated

The spell wraps around him, bright and tugging at his senses. Morgana is glowing with magic, her eyes so blue they’re nearly white. She’s got that look: she’s trying to stay calm, but she’s watching him with so much fear. “Stay with me,” she says, taking his face in her hands.

He nods, raising a hand to his mouth. It comes away covered in blood. He knows he must look a mess. He’s ended up sitting on the ground, half-slumped and gritting his teeth with pain, and she’s had to sit, too, reaching to pull him into her arms.

He sighs, his head on her shoulder. “This is the one, isn’t it?”

“What?” She’s still distracted, running a hand over his back.

“I always knew it would happen sometime. Something you couldn’t heal. I just… I need you to know…”

He hears her swallow, feels the way she tenses against him. “Not today.”

Her grip tightens, and then the world turns blue. It’s so bright it hurts, and he has to shut his eyes. He feels the Veil not just thin but _tear._ He can taste magic on his tongue, and it shakes through his bones until it’s pain, and he’s losing himself against the onslaught.

“I love you,” he says into her ear, while he still can.

“I love you, too,” she responds. When he manages to open his eyes, she’s shining so brightly she barely looks human. She’s a Fade-thing, and the sight is frightening and exhilarating in equal measure. “ _Now stay with me.”_


	29. Me too (AU, promptfic)

  * Prompt: _“I can’t do this anymore.”_



Alistair says it as he’s sitting on the shore of Lake Calenhad, because even when he’s on his own, he can’t make himself shut up.

It’s true. He’s got nowhere to stay, and they’ll be sending out the templars soon. Maybe it’d be different if he was some other foundling - one less mouth to feed - but he isn’t any other orphan. And doesn’t he know it. He feels his mouth twist bitterly, and he skims a stone across the lake, because he has to _move,_ do _something_ ,or he’ll start running again.

He looks out across the water. There are lights up by Redcliffe Castle. He could go there, but he already knows what he’d find. Isolde, and the cot in his old room, and Arl Eamon’s disappointment. _Back to the Chantry with you, boy._ No, once was enough.

So he’s got nowhere to go, and he’s exhausted. His back hurts, his shoulders hurt, his legs hurt… Everything hurts, pretty much. Bournshire’s five miles away, and once he wouldn’t have been able to run most of that. He guesses all that training is good for something. He shouldn’t have done this - it’s the third time in as many months, and after he gets taken back he probably won’t be able to sit down for a week - but he had to. He had to know if he could climb that wall.

“What can’t you do?”

He twists around. “What?”

There’s a girl standing behind him. She’s got to be about the same age as him, maybe twelve or thirteen, and she’s wearing ragged apprentice’s robes that are torn round the hem. She peers at him from under tangled, dishevelled hair. “What can’t you do anymore?” she repeats. And then she walks towards him, slowly, as if she’s worried he might run away or yell at her, and sits next to him, wrapping her arms around her knees. She leaves a lot of room between them, and she looks at the lake instead of him.

He should probably be afraid, or suspicious; mages don’t just turn up from out of nowhere. But instead he tells the truth. (Bad idea. It’s what always gets him into trouble. But old habits are hard to break.) “Running away.”

She nods, and makes a small, weird noise that he realises is a laugh.

He glares at her. “This isn’t funny.” _And I_ never _say that._

She blinks, and she looks scared. “I know. I just meant… me too.”

Well, that wasn’t what he was expecting. But he looks at the scuffed knees on her robes and how wild her eyes are, and he understands. He wants to kick himself. “Oh.”

She keeps her eyes on the lake. “I thought I might try and see my family. If I could find them.”

“Me too,” he says, quietly.

She stares at the ground for a while, and then she says, “There’s no time. I found a secret passage. They weren’t looking, and I thought maybe if they didn’t know I was gone - ” She sighs. “But they’ll know.”

“Maybe not. Sounds like you were pretty subtle.”

She smiles, and she looks like someone different, all of a sudden. “They’ve got my phylactery,” she sighs. “The templars are already coming.”

“Mine are coming, too,” he sighs. And then his mind catches up. “Your… what?”

“My phylactery? You must have one somewhere.” She looks him up and down. “You’re… Those aren’t robes.” She tenses up, like she’s ready to run. “Where did you run from?”

“The Chantry,” he replies.

She stares at him. “Thought templars were older.”

“I’m not a templar. Not… yet. It’s not like I even wanted to go, but…” He puts his face in his hands. “I just want to go home.” When he looks up, she’s watching him, wide-eyed and… sad.

“How old were you when you were taken?” she asks.

“Ten. You?”

“Four.” She breathes out, slowly. “What’s your name?”

He tries to smile. “’Kitchen-boy’ or ‘brat’, if you’re the Revered Mother. Alistair, if you’re anyone else.”

And there it is again, that little hint of a smile on her face. "Alistair,” she repeats, and he likes the sound of his name a lot better, suddenly. She looks over her shoulder. “They’ll be here soon. If you don’t have a phylactery… You should run.”

“What about you?”

“They’re tracking my blood. They’ll be here soon. _Go._ ”

“That’s - templars use _blood magic_?”

“They don’t call it that. And I meant what I said. You need to run.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t just _leave_ you. It wouldn’t be right. And I’m so… I’m so _tired._ ”

Now she’s laughing again. “I can set a man on fire. You don’t have that option. Alistair…”

Suddenly there’s a hand wrapping round his, and her fingers are smaller, but they still feel strong. And… warm. Really warm. He feels the Veil thin, and there’s a faint glow, and he opens his mouth - 

“Rejuvenation spell,” she says, before he can ask. “You can’t stop running. You can’t… you can’t let them win. Maybe you’ll do it.  _Go,_ I can feel… they’re nearly…”

“What’s your name?” he manages.

There’s a _clank_ of plate, and the sounds of heavy feet.

“ _Go,_ Alistair! _”_ She shoves him until he’s unsteadily on his feet. “ _Now!”_

And he hates himself for it, but he thinks of the look in her eyes and he runs, wildly, crashing through foliage, but away. He’s almost back to full speed, like he was at the beginning… Like he has more energy.

And he runs, with his lungs burning and the wind in his hair, and his eyes are watering, but it’s not because of the wind.

 

They find him, of course. They always do. It takes a few more hours than it would’ve, but they drag him back, and then he gets the kind of caning that makes him doubt the Maker exists. When he collapses onto his bunk, still hurting, he slips into the Fade…

…and he’s by a lake, the water green with Fade-light. It’s a lot like the one he left recently. He looks around, frowning -

And there’s a girl sitting on the lakeshore, frowning at a book. He edges towards her, because it can’t be _her_.

She looks up when she hears him, and surprise crosses her face. “Oh. It’s… it’s you.” And it sure looks like her - that or he has a very good imagination. The sisters are always scolding him for it, so it’s probably the imagination part. She doesn’t look annoyed to see him again, either.

“They took me back,” he says miserably, and he slumps to sit next to her.

“Me too,” she says, and then, “You tried. That what’s matters. You’ve got to keep trying, or you’ll spend your whole life… Do you know where I am? Where I really am?”

He shakes his head.

“I’m in a Circle dormitory, and I’ve been there for as long as I can remember, every other night. Looking at the same ceiling. Hiding from the same people. Trying to find some secret door. That was the first time I’d seen a sunset since… since I was too young to know what one was. It was… nice.” She ducks her head. “And I’d never tried. Part of me always knew I’d die in the Tower. But it’s not like that for you. You tried, and you’ve got to _keep trying._ If you’re like me, it’s… it’s who you are.”

Staring at her, he says, “Trying. Right.” 

He smiles, and she smiles back, and all of a sudden he thinks he might be blushing, just a little.

He looks at the book in her hands. “Is that _Tales of the Black Fox?”_ When she nods, he says, “I sneaked in a copy when they took me to the Chantry. I thought maybe I should read about someone who was good at escaping. Take notes. You know.”

She laughs again, quietly, and nods. She’s a little pink round the cheeks. “My… my name is Morgana,” she offers, after a second.

“Nice to meet you. It’s the kind of name you remember. Pretty. Uh…” He rubs at the back of his neck, feeling his face heat. “I mean… I’ll remember that.”

Now she’s giving him a proper grin. He hadn’t known she could. “Good.”

 

He wakes up feeling a little better. A weird dream, he thinks, but then a couple of nights later he sees her again. And again. And he realises that somewhere, somehow, there’s a mage looking for him in the Fade, to say hello. To tell him he isn’t alone.

 

**coda**

He’s twenty, just, and he’s standing in a fortress, not-so-subtly irritating a mage - he’s enjoying this too much; he knows Grey Wardens are meant to be serious but this is the most fun he’s had in weeks and _yes, this is his way of trying to encourage cooperation, Duncan_ \- when he hears a sound. A quiet, cut-off laugh, like she’s afraid of being caught.

It’s a sound he’s been hearing in his dreams since he was thirteen. He knows it’s probably his imagination, but he has to _look -_

He leans past the mage, who gets louder and is obviously not pleased about being ignored, and he sees… apprentice’s robes, but this time the stains are blood, rather than mud. Tangled fair hair, and underneath it, wide blue eyes that meet his. And get wider.

(Duncan mentioned a recruit from the Circle. He didn’t mention their name.)

She slowly raises a hand, and waves.

Next to Alistair, the mage stalks off with noises of disgust, but that would have happened anyway. Duncan will give him the “not angry, just disappointed” face, but he’ll live. He’s already walking to meet her, only just stopping himself from running, but it’s a close thing.

She’s doing the same. Even though she looks pale and exhausted, there’s a smile growing on her face. She looks like she did in the Fade, though somehow, she looks a little taller here.

“Oh, hey, it’s… it’s you,” he says, and he knows he sounds breathless.

And now she does smile, wide and bright. “And it’s you.” She reaches out a hand, slowly, and places it on his arm, as if she’s checking he’s real. She still looks a little dazed. “Alistair…”

“I know,” he says, grinning at her. “Me too.”


	30. Sunshine

Alistair knows he’s probably grinning like an idiot, and he tries to school his face into something less incriminating. It’s just that he never expected it -  _any_ of it. The softness of her skin, even with the callouses on her hands and the scars he spent so long tracing. The way she spoke to him. The fact she seemed happy to laze in his -  _their?_ That’s really a conversation they should be having sometime - bedroll and wrap herself round him like a cheerful, gorgeous limpet. Not that he was much better at letting go of her when it came to it, world to save or not. 

He remembers her squirming out of his arms, despite his protests,  _grinning_ at him. And there’s a word he doesn’t get to use often about Morgana - but there, bright, happy and unashamed, she made him want to stop and stare. Maybe stay another hour. Or, you know, forever. He didn’t mind.

Maybe it’s selfish that he wants it, all of it. He wants to spend every morning with Morgana in his arms, soft and satisfied and smiling at him.

And most of all, more than how it all felt… She loves him.  _She loves him._

He realises he’s probably back in the grinning-idiot phase, and that their companions must be wondering why he seems so enthusiastic about what might be porridge but stands about an equal chance of being gravy. He looks up and most of them seem, thankfully, oblivious, but Zevran is somehow managing to  _eat_ smugly, and Leliana seems dangerously amused. She says, “Do you know where Morgana is at all?”

At the river, where she’d sent him on ahead after pretending to glare at him and a comment about drooling lechery.

“I’m sure she’ll be along soon,” he responds, feigning innocence. He looks around them and tries, “You know, I think the sun’s actually come out.”

Zevran smirks. “Truly, it is a day of miraculous developments.”

He feels his face heat, but even embarrassment can’t ruin his good mood.

And sure enough, a couple of minutes later he hears tentative footsteps, and a pale hand touches his shoulder. She walks past him to the pot, getting a bowl of whatever they’re calling breakfast. She looks up from her food, her eyes meet his, and she pauses. Her smile widens, becoming something tender. She walks back to him practically lit up from the inside.

He thought it earlier: he’s never had anyone look at him the way she does. Like it’s been a long journey and she’s glad to see him. Like he’s all she could ever want. He tries to name that look, then remembers  _I love you too, Alistair_ and thinks he might have an idea. He wonders if that’s what he looks like when he sees her. Maybe, but he figures he looks more like he’s been hit round the head with a blunt object, considering he still feels a little dazed by everything. His good fortune, mostly.

She sits next to him and lets their shoulders brush, still with that  _smile,_ and he resists the urge to do something stupid like kiss her, regardless of the bowl in her hands and their smug, overly interested audience.She looks at their company and seems to remember she’s shy. She starts on her breakfast, and he tries to be at least a little subtle about watching her, his heart in his throat.

He wonders why she doesn’t get all the mockery.

  
  


It’s only when they’ve set off that he lets the others go on ahead and puts a hand on her arm.

She turns to him, a little worried. “Alistair?”

He needs to do something, or he might burst. He kisses her, softly but deeply, his hand under her chin, trying to show her all the things he can’t put into words, and then says, “I love you.” It’s hasty and still a little breathless, and he sounds a bit like he’s startled by the words. Maybe because he is; he never thought he’d get to say them to anyone, and then the thought that they might actually feel the same… Well. That was never going to happen, obviously. Not worth thinking about.

Except it  _is,_ and  _not going to happen_ is staring at him, all big blue eyes, her mouth opening, like he’s showing her the stars all over again.

She blinks at him in surprise. Then she smiles, going pink in a way that really shouldn’t be as sweet as it is. “I love you too,” she says, and she moves and presses a kiss to his palm.

He feels that warmth again, and he stares at his hand. “Was that… a rejuvenation spell? Is that a thing mages can do? You can cast with your  _mouth?_ ”

She stares at it too. “Sorry. I… forgot not to.”

He laughs. “Hey, it’s not like you’re absentmindedly setting me on fire.”

She looks at him, wide-eyed and worried. “Who’d eat my cooking?”

“Your - ” He sighs. “Oh, you got me there. The whole ‘way too serious Circle mage’ thing, it doesn’t work on me anymore.”

She laughs, nose scrunching. “I… don’t think it has for a while. The 'I’m just a daft Chantry initiate who can’t kill an ogre’ thing doesn’t work on me, either.”

He flushes. “It’s only been three. And besides, you didn’t see me yesterday. I got a leaf stuck in my hair and didn’t notice for… oh, four hours?”

“Alistair.” She looks at him flatly. “I was saying I loved you.”

“Oh, right. That.” He pauses, trying not to just close his eyes and let the words go through him; he wants to savour them. “I’m pretty sure the fearsome Warden isn’t meant to make me grin like an idiot. Just saying.”

“I’m just telling you the truth.” Her smile is in her eyes; it always has been, right from the early days when he wondered if she could only glare.

They both turn at a voice from ahead of them. Way further ahead of them than he realised, actually.

“Are you two coming, or would you like us to leave you behind?” Leliana stands with her hands on her hips, an eyebrow raised.

They jog a little to catch up, and somewhere along the way he feels a slim, cool hand slip into his. He blinks and looks to Morgana, who ducks her head, pink creeping back into her cheeks, and looks like she’s not sure she should have -

He squeezes her fingers, laces them with his, and doesn’t let go.

 


	31. Scary Warrior Mage

Alistair’s not entirely sure what “she’s doing some weird magic thing in the yard” means, but he  _does_ know what “really… missed the lady, huh?” with waggling eyebrows means, and he glares at Oghren on his way through the keep. It’s been  _a month,_ and yes, he’s missed her, but not like… that. Not the grinning-elbowing-heh-heh kind of missed. He just… He loves her, all right? And he’s spent a month trudging through swamps looking for the source of that damn infestation, and he just really wants to kiss her. Maybe have a mug of tea. Something.

He pauses when he gets to the training yard, and tilts his head. Every hair on the back of his neck and down his spine is rising, and the Veil feels… weird. OK, Oghren was right on that. Warm-weird, not bad-weird, the magic in the air is definitely Morgana’s, but - 

Huh.

She’s training in some kind of sleeveless tunic, greatsword in her hands and an arcane shield glowing around her. He takes a second to mentally check her swing - all right, months of teaching her left behind some habits - and then just looks through the magic and watches the shift of muscle, remembering when she was always scared, even if she was using a  _lot_ of glaring to try and hide it, and she’d seemed so… fragile. She still is, but now  _fragile_ is also accompanied by swinging giant swords around with a half-snarl and… he kind of likes it. Strong’s always been a good look on her. So’s less fear.

He clears his throat. “All right, ‘scary battle goddess’ isn’t such a bad thing to come home to…”

She turns, and she looks sweaty and maybe a little tired but she lights up at the sight of him, beaming. “Alistair!”

“Were you expecting someone else?” he says, grinning -

But that’s as far as he gets before she’s run across the yard, the sword is… somewhere over there, and she’s throwing her arms around him. “I’ve missed you.”

“I… I can tell,” he manages, raising his eyebrows, and then he feels his toes scraping the ground. He looks down, and then back into her eyes. “Morgana…”

She stares and stops  _spinning him like he’s some kind of swooning princess._ She hasn’t quite lifted him off the ground, he’s a little tall for it compared to her five and a half feet, but she’s come pretty close. “I. Er.” She swallows, and then… carefully puts him down. “Sorry.”

“ _I’m wearing full mail._ ”

She just stares back at him.  “I know.”

He manages, “Is this… an Arcane Warrior thing?”

She nods, a little jerkily, and then tilts her head and closes her eyes. There’s the low half-whisper of magic fading, and then the air feels less… weird. “I forgot not to channel the… Er. Sorry. I’m sure I never used to be able to do that.”

He grins at her, and watches her surprise. “Are you kidding? I can make you take my pack next time we’ve got a hike. And you can just carry me off the battlefield next time I get tired. Oh, carrying, that’s…” He pauses.

She frowns. “What are you thinking?”

Suddenly he feels less like he’s been trekking across miles of awful terrain. He grabs her legs, watches the smile grow on her face, and hoists her up in a carry some would call  _bridal_ , but she’d probably kill him for saying it. “This,” he says, “but in reverse.”

She rests her head against his shoulder, and he feels her laughter against his neck, then she leans up and kisses him. “You want me to carry you around like… like I’m a Qunari?”

“Why not? I’ve always wanted someone to appreciate how delicate I am.” He bats his eyelashes and watches her laugh, that kind of lovely laughter where her nose scrunches up and he ends up grinning at her too because he can’t help it. Then he kisses her and feels that laughter on his skin, too, and it’s just… perfect. All of it. “Are you done here?” he asks. When she nods, he says, “Right, then I’m taking you upstairs so I can get this armour off and sleep for a year. Then, maybe…” He raises a brow.

She looks back at him, too innocently. “We can test out the carrying hypothesis?”

“That. Yes.” He clears his throat again, because OK, slightly dry. “Very much that.”

She wriggles out of his grasp and ends up standing next to him, taking his hand and tugging on it. He follows her, trying not to look like a lovestruck idiot and thinking that she doesn’t look like such a scary warrior mage when she’s giggling.


	32. Dystopia

“Alistair?”

He wakes panting and trying to reach out for something solid, for… Maker, he needs to reach her. To hold her, to… anything. 

There’s a hand on his arm, pale and scarred and familiar, and then he’s looking into wide blue eyes, and she’s saying with a healer’s calm, “What was it?”

“Nothing. Just… just a dream. You know how those are. Cheery, right?” He’s still breathless, and he knows he sounds… like he feels. Like a mess. His voice is shaking rather than airy.

But she looks at him with that same steady calm, and he remembers all the nightmares they’ve had with each other, or held each other after. When you’re a Warden, it’s never  _just_ a dream. She says quietly, “It didn’t sound like an Archdemon dream.”

He wonders if he ever really expected to fool her. “It… wasn’t.”

She swallows. “You could… you could tell me. If you wanted to.” She looks shy, then, and younger. He remembers tentative conversations round the campfire, when she’d been so silent and so stiff (but she’d wanted to reach out, all that time, he knows now).

“I really don’t think - “ He sighs. “Just… try not to hate me for this, all right?” It should be a joke. It isn’t.

She nods, frowning.

“I dreamt I was… I was in the Chantry.” He puts his face in his hands. “That I’d never gotten out, and…” He inhales, hearing air hiss through his fingers. Her hand is still on his shoulder, a steady weight, grounding him. He wonders if she’ll even want to touch him after this. “They wanted me to make an apostate Tranquil.” He shouldn’t say this, he shouldn’t… “They  _gave me the brand to do it_.”

She’s silent a moment, and then she says, “Oh.” But her hand doesn’t leave his shoulder.

He swallows nausea and winces, then raises his head. He tries to look her in the eye and ends up staring at the tent floor instead. Part of him wants to be honest, because lying’s too easy, and the other part of him thinks that it was bad enough in his head, she doesn’t need it in hers too. “I was fighting them, but they… I think they were winning. I said I wouldn’t do it. Not to anyone, but especially not to - “

Andraste’s  _sword_. He just had to say it, didn’t he?

He feels her hand move, and then it’s cupping his cheek, raising his head. And she asks, steadily, because she already knows the answer: “Who was the apostate?”

He sighs, and looks her in the eye. “You know who it was.”

He waits for her to recoil and start calling him  _templar,_ like the early days, to -

He doesn’t expect her arms to wrap round him and for her to all but pull him into her lap. She puts a hand in his hair and rests her face against his neck, and he freezes, not sure whether to move. He’s scared she’ll feel like he’s caging her, like he’s -

“You all right?” she asks, softly.

He can’t speak, then. He’s not a good enough liar. Instead he just gives in and pulls her close, clinging to her, listening to her steady breathing.

“There was no light in your eyes,” he hears, and it takes him a moment to realise he’s said it. He clears his throat, because the words sounded raw and too bleak. “So that was… fun. You know, I think I prefer the Archdemon.”

She exhales, and then he feels a gentle, brief kiss on his neck. “You’re a Warden. You’re safe. They couldn’t keep you.”

“Is that what you say to yourself?” he asks, and then winces. Great. That isn’t an awful question at all.

But she just sounds matter-of-fact. “Sometimes. Sometimes I just hold onto you. You’re…” She mumbles something that sounds like, “a good reminder.”

He laughs, low and a little desperate. “And now you’re returning the favour?”

He feels her nod. “Also, I’m selfish,” she says, after a moment. When she feels him tense, because he’s about to ask, she explains, like it’s not a big deal, “You’re warm.”

He snorts, but it comes out more like a sob. “And I thought you didn’t have a sense of humour.” He swallows, and draws back, needing to look at her. “I know we’ve both wondered what would have happened if the Wardens hadn’t found us. Do you ever… Have you had the same sorts of dreams?”

She looks at him, and then ducks her head and something pained and uncertain crossing her face. Then she looks at him. “Not since I called you my friend.”

But before that… Oh, Maker. “I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t know - “

“ _Not your fault_ ,” she says, and he feels those hands on his face again, making him look at her. “It’s never been your fault. I told you: you’re not a templar, Alistair.”

He laughs, bitterly, “What, so you’re suddenly not a mage?”

She looks… sad. “I’ll always be a mage. But we’re not in the Circle. We’ll never have to be.” Her hand moves to touch something at his throat, and he looks down to see her raising the Warden’s Oath, showing it to him.

“…Right,” he breathes.

“I trust you.” She shifts closer, until suddenly there’s a tired, gentle mage leaning against him, her head on his shoulder and her face against his neck. Her palm touches his chest, and the glow of healing magic and something else, some kind of soothing spell, fills their tent. It feels warm, kind, like a cup of tea on a harsh Fereldan night.

He winces overdramatically. “Maker, your nose is cold.”

She just smiles, and he does the same, lying them back down and pulling the blankets over them both. He feels her nestle closer and stifle a yawn against his skin, and all he can think of is the cat in Redcliffe who used to curl up in the sun and look… content.

“I love you,” he murmurs when she’s asleep, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “And I promise you, I’d never hurt you. Not… ever.”

“I know,” comes the mostly-asleep mumble, and oh, maybe not so unconscious after all. “I love you too.”

It takes him a while to fall asleep, but he lies there, warm and holding her, listening to her breathe. Sometime in the space between the inhale and the exhale, he slips into the Fade himself. The dreams are better, this time.


	33. Petrichor

He’s wading through the fight, and  _wading’s_ the right word; every movement’s slow and difficult, with too much resistance. His… little problem isn’t helping. Behind every sound - every clash of metal and every scream - is the song, crawling under his skin and beckoning him.

He can hear the words now.  _Come,_ it’s saying.  _Come, come, join us._

Maker. He thought he still had ten years, maybe. More than this.

He’s distracted by that thought. He takes an arrow to the thigh as he kills the last of the hurlocks. It doesn’t seem to have hit anything major, or he’d be smelling the blood by now. Thank Andraste.

He still staggers, and mutters a curse, looking for the source of it. 

A few feet away. Oh. Damn. Genlock. Genlock with a  _longbow._  And another. And…

He’s outnumbered.

He sighs, and tightens his grip on his swordhilt. Is it better if he knew it was coming? He’s known this was coming since he woke up with a splitting headache after a mouthful of archdemon blood.  _I’m sorry,_ he thinks, to one person in particular, because he should have told her he loved her more, he should have seen her one more time before -

There’s something in the air, under the Taint and the blood and old stone and everything else. He runs towards the darkspawn, and he nearly stops when he realises that he can smell the air after rain.

He smells it, and he knows he’s dying. That or he has a really good imagination. Because she can’t possibly be here, she can’t -

He feels a barrier wrap around him like an embrace, and there’s the bright, clear sound of a sword being drawn. A call.

The nearest of the genlocks is forced backwards by a Fade Step, and then there’s a mage swinging a shining starmetal greatsword and beheading it. She’s almost inhuman, a being of Fadestuff, a blur of blood and rage and magic and… rain, she always carries the rain with her. 

He finishes off the next of the genlocks and inhales that smell under everything else. There’s a hand on his shoulder and then it sharpens, and he feels healing magic flow through him before she’s gone again. A hurlock bursts into flames. 

He knows she must be using all her mana, but she’s always pushed herself too far. The only way to solve it is to make this be over faster. He hacks through the two remaining that aren’t being immolated or destroyed by earth and ice, and then…

“Alistair.”

He fumbles, drops his sword. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s that he has a really, really good imagination. However, he doesn’t turn. Because then she’ll disappear, and what will he do?

It’s wrong to be glad of the Calling. It’s wrong to be glad that it gave him this, because it looks like his mind can conjure up anything to keep him moving now, even her.

And then he feels two hands on the leather between his shoulder-plates, precisely where he’ll feel it most, the way she always knew to do. “Alistair?” She sounds scared, and… a little older, rawer. He feels that warm magic again, and it tastes like fresh water on his tongue, the only alive thing here.

That’s when he knows. “Morgana?”

She steps into his line of sight, and she smiles at him. It’s shaky, and she’s covered in blood; she’s paler than he remembered, and she has a couple of new scars, and her hair’s a little longer, and she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Hello, love.”

And his heart is breaking. Because if she’s here, not off on some chase for the cure, then she must have given up. Surely he’d have heard -

“It’s not the Calling.”

He blinks at her. “What?”

She reaches out, and he realises that at some point she’s taken his sword, and she’s offering it back to him. “It’s a trick.” Her eyes are wide. “Don’t listen to it. A darkspawn, like the Architect - it found a way to control the Taint.”

He takes the sword back and sheathes it. “I knew I’d missed a few things, but… how?”

She shakes her head. “Later, Alistair.” And then she reaches into the pouches at her belt and brings out… two little vials.

He swallows, and stares, because maybe she hadn’t given up after all. “Are those… what I think they are?”

Her smile comes back, in full force. Even down here, it’s dazzling. “Yes. And there’s more. We can create antidotes, not just cure - “ She ducks her head. “Yes. It’s what you think.”

He kisses her, then, gently and being careful not to make her drop her find, because it’s been too long, and this is worth celebrating. It’s like relief after a drought. She tastes like rain, and joy, and the sunlight after the caves, and life.


	34. Capernoited

“I didn’t  _want_ to kill them.”  The Warden is still scrubbing at her hands, her armour and gauntlets cast aside, and the water in the bucket has long since turned pink, and then a rustier red. It’s futile, Zevran knows it as well as she does; the blood on her hands isn’t the kind anyone can see. She mutters, “They were just soldiers, they were probably just trying to feed their families, and it’s not their fault that Loghain told them - told them…” Her voice fails her.

She does not cry then, for she does not often seem to cry in general, but it’s the closest he’s seen her since they began their acquaintance.

Later he will blame himself for letting his guard down, for taking some of whatever vile swill their short, beardy friend kept in that hipflask. His tolerance is far above average, but it had burned in a distinctly dwarven way as he’d downed it, and perhaps he hadn’t considered his actions as well as he should have.

“Ah,” he says softly, regretfully. “You still think killing is about  _wanting.”_

“Like you’d know.” The words are quiet, but snarled, and he’s reminded of nothing so much as the feral mabari he has seen snapping at the bars of cages. How Fereldan. “You don’t care.”

“I’m well-acquainted with regret,” he says, and the sharpness in his voice must stop her. It surprises him, too.

She looks up, and her eyes are wide. She seems at once terribly young.

“It’s the first lesson all killers must learn,” he says, more gently.

Her shoulders tense, and she almost recoils. “I’m not - I’m not - “

He crosses the space between them then, and takes her hands gently from the water, puts aside the harsh lye soap them seem to prefer here. “Be gentle on yourself.” When she only stares at him, he says, “They could have given you a choice. They did not. They chose not to return home. That’s not yours to carry, dear Warden.”

“They were just - It wasn’t - They weren’t darkspawn and I, I  _killed_ them.” Those dripping, raw hands come up to cover her face.

Yes, definitely the alcohol, he thinks, as he touches her shoulder. “You had no choice. Someday, you will understand that. Even if that day is not today.”

“Does it ever… get easier?” she says, very quietly.

 _No._ “Perhaps,” is all he says, as he looks at her bloodstained gauntlets, the vulnerable back of her neck, the way she’s turned from him, and makes no plans at all to kill her.

**Author's Note:**

> This is in the same universe as [an old fic of mine](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7222502/1/Armour), but stands on its own. Most of these were originally posted over at [my Tumblr.](http://trulycertain.tumblr.com) Feel free to come and say hello, or to tell me to stop writing such disgusting fluff before everyone's teeth fall out.


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